


Of a Linear Circle - Part V - Ravenclaw

by flamethrower



Series: Of a Linear Circle [6]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, GFY, Historical Figures, Historical References, Hogwarts Founders Era, Multi, Nobility, Ottonian Dynasty was a Clusterfuck, Politics, Theophanu was not white and I will fight you, poc characters, quoth the raven, serious fucking politics, underage noble marriages
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-22 18:11:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 32,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13769718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamethrower/pseuds/flamethrower
Summary: She is Hrodwunn of Hrabanklawa, but others in the Empire call her Rowena of Raven’s Claw.





	1. Hrabanklawa

**Author's Note:**

> It took me a while to decide if I was going to post Part V (which got, uh, out of hand) as one single fic or separate it out into 4-5 fics similar to the way Part IV has two different sections. In the end, I went with separation because, well...dude. Founders fic, that's why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New Cover Art by @blueeyedbookworm on Tumblr!

 

Her name is Hrodwunn, and she despises that no one uses the proper form of her name outside of the great duchy of Bavaria. She is Hrodwunn of Hrabanklawa, but others in the Empire call her Rowena of Raven’s Claw. It isn’t proper to use her magic against those who butcher her name, so she decides she will learn to speak around them instead.

Her tutors are tearing out their own hair in frustration by the time Hrodwunn is age nine. She takes this as a sign that she is succeeding in her quest to be more knowledgeable than those who think her name something it is not. Hrodwunn’s mother gave her this name: it is the joy of a good reputation, one who speaks well.

Rowena does not mean those things. It is merely a set of three sounds, ones that others find more pleasing, when instead they should be accepting the artistry of the duchy’s favored Bavarian. Her father’s name is Colobert and means _brilliant helmet_ , a reference to the shining warrior helms of old. Her mother’s name Theudelinda means _tender people_ , but those who believe Theudelinda leads with weakness will know regret—and forget that the most famous bearer of that name was the Bavarian-born Queen of the Longobardi, Saxons who once ruled most of the Apennine Peninsula. No one dares tell them to say their names as different from what they are.

When she is still very young, her parents are always quick to say how glad they are that Hrodwunn was born on the twenty-fourth day of October in 953, no sooner and no later. They say that she was born when their entire kingdom looked to be on the verge of tearing itself apart as everyone rebelled against their king.

“Not that we necessarily like His Highness very much,” is Theudelinda’s wry comment. “But the others would have left us with no kingdom at all. When we’ve so many enemies to the east, what others chose was not particularly wise.”

“Didn’t they think about that? The rebels?” Hrodwunn asks, with no idea that even her own parents had rebelled against Duke Henry’s mostly-absent reign over Bavaria. He tried to do better to his own people towards the end, but it is nearly the Winter Solstice in 955. Henry I has been dead since the first day of November last year, felled by mortal wounds sustained in battle against the invading Hungarians. Her parents have taken her on processions throughout Bavaria to show her the battle scars on the land, the burnt-out buildings and crops that were destroyed in their fields as armies crushed the fruits of many labors into the earth. Colobert and Theudelinda tell Hrodwunn that if it were not for the magical duchies like their own Hrabanklawa, there would have been starvation for many. Hrodwunn has already heard that word repeated often enough in her short life that she knows exactly what sort of terror starvation would mean.

“They thought about power,” her mother finally answers. “And little else but the ways in which they might acquire more for themselves.”

“Oh.” Hrodwunn wonders what four-year-old Henry II, Duke of Bavaria, might one day try to do for power. Then again, she has met his mother, Duchess Judith. She thinks maybe he wouldn’t dare.

When the warm weather arrives after winter’s end, the whole of Bavaria seems to be celebrating. It’s a terrible racket that makes it hard to concentrate on learning new words.

“Why?” Hrodwunn wails when it passes midnight and still there is shouting echoing throughout their keep.

Colobert sweeps Hrodwunn from the floor and carries her in his arms. “The king and queen’s youngest son, Otto II, has survived the winter of his birth. That is always a good omen. We certainly thought much the same for you, dearest.”

“Oh.” Hrodwunn frowns. She supposes if all of this noise is celebrating someone not dying, then she’ll be as majestic and gracious as her mother about it.

“Majestic? Gracious?” Colobert puts the back of his hand to her forehead. “Such words to come from my child who will not be three until hærfest season!”

“There is nothing wrong with my words!” Hrodwunn retorts. Her father laughs and bids her to tell her more of her words until she falls asleep in his lap at dawn.

Hrodwunn remains an only child, despite all her parents’ attempts, despite all of the Healers and their potions. She scowls and goes to find the primary Healer of their keep, Ewald. “Why don’t I have sisters?”

“What’s that? You do not wish for brothers, too?” Ewald asks, pausing in his work of rubbing a fresh coating of beeswax into his spruce wand.

“Fine,” Hrodwunn huffs. “Why don’t I have either?”

“Ah.” Ewald dips his cloth into the bottle and retrieves a fresh smear of sweet beeswax. “The Duke and the Duchess are but twenty-three and twenty years of age. There isn’t a reason, young Hrodwunn. We simply do not know.”

“How can you not know?” Hrodwunn asks.

“Because I am not a god, young one. You’d be best served asking one of them.”

Hrodwunn shivers. “No, thank you.” She decides to go back to her quill and the new jar of ink Mother brought her. If she masters her letters, she has been promised a new book. She has read every book in her chamber and every book she is allowed to touch in the Keep; she is going to _earn_ that tome.

Perhaps her mother and father spoil her a bit, or perhaps they would have indulged her even if they had bred well enough to fill the family keep. Hrodwunn does not stop at learning her Latin letters and Saxon runes, reading in Bavarian and Latin and old Saxony. She learns magic and languages—so many languages. She will learn every language she encounters, a goal that makes her father groan and bribe the new tutors into making certain that no one knows his daughter plans on being the most intelligent magician in Bavaria. He does not mind her learning, but many have foolish notions in regards to a woman who is educated beyond the necessities of running a noble household.

The month before her fourth birthday fills the air with a cautious, fretful sort of quiet when Bavaria receives the news that the Heir to the Frankish throne, Prince Liudolf, has died while on campaign in Italy. “He was so young,” Theudelinda whispers when she thinks Hrodwunn isn’t listening. “Twenty-eight only.”

“The new queen’s first two sons have also died in infancy. Unless our kingdom sees good sense and looks to the princess, young Otto is the king’s only Heir,” Colobert says, looking grim. “Their Majesties should attempt more children.”

“Our king would have to spend enough time in East Francia to make such a thing possible,” old Steward Kunibert mutters.

Hrodwunn continues reading and keeps up with her studies. When the adults discuss their kingdom and its—politics, yes, that word—she wishes to join them. Not to be coddled, not to be cooed over. She wants to _speak_ and be understood. She wants to have something useful to say.

When King Otto crosses back into Italy in 961, Hrodwunn is eight years old. Perhaps she does not yet have anything useful to say that isn’t a mirror to her mother’s comments over what men will do for power, but she is at least now allowed to sit among them and listen. Colobert and Theudelinda know that Hrodwunn may not speak, but she already understands.

In mid-February, word comes back from Italy that the Pope of the Christian Church has declared their king to be the new Roman Emperor in the West. To the surprise of many, Otto’s wife Adelheid was also named Empress of the Romans, not mere Empress Consort. The Kingdoms of East Francia and Italy are now one united realm.

Hrodwunn does not think she is the only one wondering at the point of acquiring such land. Otto rules by his authority and by the Church’s authority first. Only after the Church extends its mighty arm do the nobles have a say. How is Emperor Otto to control this much land when he wishes to control its entire doings on his own?

On Hrodwunn’s tenth birthday, before the evening celebration, her father introduces her to Åsa. She is a tall woman from the fiefdom of Normandy. She is still very Norse in appearance despite nearly a century of intermarriages, with pale skin, bright gold hair, and eyes the color of the Mediterranean Sea to the south. Hrodwunn has only seen a magician’s magical _Recordari_ image of still water, but even witnessed in such fashion, the color is memorable and unmistakable.

“The Lady Åsa is a wandmaker, Hrodwunn,” Colobert tells her. “She wishes to speak with the youngest magician in Hrabanklawa.”

Hrodwunn grins and spends an entertaining afternoon speaking with the first wandmaker she has ever met. Åsa does not seem to mind her endless questions about wood and the cores that strengthen a wand. She answers Hrodwunn with gentle patience. Sometimes she asks questions of Hrodwunn as well. Only a few center on the idea of magic. Others revolve around her opinion of government policies, politics, the Church’s tithing of the whole of East Francia, the land of Hrabanklawa, the Black Forest—so many differing ideas that do not seem to be related at all, though each subsequent discussion is very interesting.

Åsa departs after the evening feast. Hrodwunn is sad to see the Norman woman part from the keep. There are few magicians in Hrabanklawa aside from herself and her parents, and the others are not nearly as patient with a young girl’s desire to learn.

To Hrodwunn’s surprise, Åsa returns on the Winter Solstice. She gives Hrodwunn a small parcel wrapped in good leather, instructs her to take good care of her winter gift, and then departs using magical Fahrend before Hrodwunn can even open her mouth to thank her—or to provide proper hospitality and invite Åsa to join them for the evening feast.

Inside the leather is a wand. Hrodwunn squeaks in delight, chokes back the undignified sound, and then explores her gift. She recalls from her birthday conversation with the Lady Åsa that by description, this must be a wand of pear, though she has never seen one of the trees for herself. It is carved in a spiral from tip to its handle, where the spiral is ingrained as a pattern rather than texture. It is longer than her arm, but when she grows to her full height Hrodwunn thinks it will be the perfect length. It has a gentle hint of flex, but there is nothing within the wrapping to tell Hrodwunn of its core. That, she muses, she will need to discern on her own.

Colobert looks pleased when Hrodwunn shows him her new wand. “Yes, I thought the Lady Åsa would be the best choice. The wand fits you well, daughter.”

“Thank you,” Hrodwunn says, and then asks to be excused until the proper start of the feast. She has practiced only with runes for magic before this time, and she wants to see what it is like to cast with a wand. Her father is kind enough to indulge her.

Casting with a wand feels amazing. It is as if her magic has been granted the freedom to be itself.

In 967, the young Duke of Bavaria is wed. Hrodwunn is twelve and has to be present, standing with her parents and ranking men from Hrabanklawa. Her head itches from all of her black hair bound up in ridiculous combs; she wants to get rid of their extra pinching weight at first opportunity.

Her mother might actually murder Hrodwunn if she were to cut her hair. Ridiculous Court traditions. As if she is of any sort of age yet to be wed.

Henry II is sixteen and marrying Gisela, Princess of Burgundy, who is twelve. Hrodwunn doesn’t think either of _them_ should be marrying, either. Henry has often acted the complete lout when Hrodwunn is forced to spend time in her overlord’s company, and the princess is no older than she is.

“You are not marrying me off at age twelve,” Hrodwunn tells her parents in displeasure when they return home.

Colobert looks surprised. “Of course not.”

“Or thirteen.”

“No…”

“Not fourteen, either!” Hrodwunn blurts out in instant suspicion.

“Hopefully not,” Theudelinda intervenes before any potential shouting occurs. Hrodwunn is glad. She knows that a fiery temper often accompanies the growth of a boy to man or girl to woman, but she despises those moments when her emotions have no care for rational thought. “But Hrodwunn: we have no Heirs save you. If the worst happens, the duchy of Hrabanklawa will be lost.”

“There is magic in this land that is not found elsewhere,” Colobert says. “We would not be able to trust that another of the magical duchies would gain control of Hrabanklawa, not with our Empire’s…”

“Politics,” Hrodwunn finishes, nodding her understanding. It isn’t as if this is a new discovery. She grew up with the understanding that a suitable noble man would marry her to take on the role of Duke over Hrabanklawa. There is no doubting the necessity of it at all, not when it will require a strong alliance to keep the duchy within her bloodline. “Just make certain my new husband isn’t an idiot, please.”

She knows five languages by age thirteen. She is able to read and converse in her own Saxon-bred Bavarian, the common Frankish tongue of the Empire, Latin (Vulgar Latin she considers not a proper language at all, even if she can speak it), Greek, and _franceis_. She plans to learn the West Saxon English, which has become the most common tongue in the south of Britain, Hebrew, Arabic, and Aramaic—the latter three which are most useful for reading many of the scrolls and books that have not been copied in Greek or Latin. The moment she can find the proper texts and an excellent tutor, she wishes to add Catalan, Norse—it is best to know the trade tongue of the north as well as the south—Gaelic, Breton…and perhaps she will ponder a language from Iberia aside from Arabic.

She attains her first magical mastery at age fourteen, at a time when she should have just begun her first apprenticeship. Her father chastises her for being overly pleased about holding a mastery in Magical Mathematics at such a young age, but Hrodwunn knows he is proud of her accomplishment. The moment she silences her tongue, he brags on her behalf to anyone who will stand still long enough to listen.

Hrodwunn thinks no more of marriage until December, when it is announced that she will be wed the following September, a month before her sixteenth birthday. She nods, asks again if her husband is an idiot, and is assured he is not. “Very well.” Aside from voicing her approval in regards to the inevitable, she wants nothing more to do with the wedding unless she has no choice.

The news comes in early January that young Otto II has already been crowned co-Emperor by the newest Pope, done so on Christmas Day last year. “He is _eleven_ ,” Hrodwunn says, certain she must be making an improper face. “Does our Emperor so fear that he is about to drop dead that he wishes for his son’s claim to be utterly certain?”

“All of the Emperor’s other Heirs did exactly that,” her parents remind her. Hrodwunn grimaces, chastised. She’d forgotten that fact. She will not forget it twice, especially when word comes in March that queen dowager Mathilda, Otto I’s mother, has died at the age of seventy-one. It seems as if the royal family has all taken it into their heads to die within the same decade.

That summer is annoying. She does not need such a ridiculous dress. Her hair does not need to learn to curl around complicated golden combs rather than lying smooth and unbound, as is her preference. The only reason Hrodwunn does not stage her own revolt is her mother’s sadness: “I will only ever see one child wed.”

Hrodwunn thinks that Theudelinda is discounting the marriages of grandchildren, but does not voice the thought. Her mother meant a child of her loins, not the loins of another.

When Hrodwunn finally meets her new husband for the first time that hærfest season, she learns a very important lesson. She should have been _far more specific_.

Bernardus Thomas, younger son of a magical duke from Lorraine, is not an idiot. He is, in fact, quiet intelligent…but he is not kind. He is not interested in the marriage for Hrodwunn’s sake, or for the safety of Hrabanklawa. He is not even truly concerned for himself. Bernardus is interested only in the coffers of her duchy, money that will help support his desire to fight on behalf of their new Roman Empire.

“Do you care only for battle, then?” Hrodwunn asks, trying not to sound disparaging. They will be wed the following week. Perhaps she will be able to scrape the ale barrel and find hidden depths in this eighteen-year-old man. In the meantime, she will be certain the marriage contract stipulates that Hrodwunn, as Hrabanklawa’s Heir, will control the coffers of the keep.

Bernardus retrieves his wand and holds up the oak length. It is longer than his hand and forearm, a size that Hrodwunn finds amusingly excessive. “God gave me the strength to conquer the enemies of the Roman Empire, Hrodwunn. Why would I turn my face from my creator and not use them on His behalf?”

“You do not use them on behalf of God. You use them on behalf of Emperor Otto’s whim.”

Her husband-to-be stares at her in dismay. “You truly are not Christian. I thought your father was in jest.”

Hrodwunn makes a derisive sound. “If you paid the slightest bit of attention, you would have realized on your first meeting that my father does not jest about anything. My mother is not Christian, either. My pledge belongs to Baduhenna, the goddess of war.”

“War,” Bernardus repeats thoughtfully. “Would this goddess find favor with me?”

“That depends.” Hrodwunn narrows her eyes. “She does not judge men well and worthy if they treat poorly with women.”

There is a moment of silence before they’re both on their feet, wands raised, but Hrodwunn is faster. She takes her pledge to Baduhenna seriously, though she is otherwise devoted to scholarly pursuits.

Bernardus stares at her in shock when he is bound with ropes that immobilize him. They burn a vibrant sapphire blue, the color of Hrabanklawa’s magic.

“We will never be friends, I think,” Bernardus finally says.

“I did not think you were seeking friendship.” Hrodwunn dismisses the ropes and waits to see if he will be foolish a second time. “Were you?”

“No. I sought a good marriage only, as your father sought for you. I will bring great prestige to Hrabanklawa, but in my own way,” Bernardus declares. “Bear our Heirs, and I have no concern for what you do so long as you do not sully yourself with another man.”

 _I’m barely inclined to sully myself with you_ , Hrodwunn thinks in displeasure, but she has no choice. This marriage will proceed no matter her opinion of its failings. “I was raised to understand the importance of making certain my family’s line continues, Bernardus. Never fear: we shall have our Heirs.”

“What of their religion?” Bernardus asks, dusting off his long tunic.

That is one thing Hrodwunn _will_ fight for. “They will choose.” She allows frost to chill her voice. “Whatever path of faith our children walk, it will be of their choosing. There will be no forced baptisms in our duchy, which is something your holy book speaks against—Christ was of age to choose before he was baptized. If our Heirs wish to be Christian, as you are, then they may choose the holy font within a church. If they choose not to be Christian, you will treat well with them, regardless.”

Bernardus thinks on it before granting her a slow nod. “Your terms are not disagreeable. Your father did not jest about your grasp of logic and knowledge, either. I will not force our children to follow my faith, though I ask that they learn of it.”

“Easily done. Even I know of it, Bernardus,” Hrodwunn says. “They must be educated in Christian ways merely to survive in our new Empire.”

The wedding itself is tedious and dull, a long Christian ceremony performed for Bernardus’s pleasure. She normally doesn’t mind Christian services, but noble weddings seem designed to make one miserable. Her head aches from the combs that bind up her hair. Hrodwunn’s gown is too heavy and capable of blinding others due to sewn-on gems that reflect all the candlelight. The gown is a ridiculous expenditure that she resolves to sell the moment everyone else has forgotten its existence.

The priest drones on, speaking of love, of honoring and cherishing. Hrodwunn wants to scowl at the necessity of agreeing to such a falsehood. There will be no love between herself and Bernardus.

Hrodwunn uses part of the ceremony to hope that her new husband is not a terrible bed partner. She learned much by listening to the gossip of the servants, though her father would have disapproved. She knows what to expect and what should occur, and how it should be pleasurable. She also knows the reasons why it might not be, and how to identify the cause.

The priest is of their duchy, and thus not concerned when Hrodwunn and Bernardus cross wands as their final pledge to each other and the House of Hrabanklawa. However, there is murmuring from among the guests invited on Bernardus’s behalf, discontent that makes no sense. They _must_ have known Bernardus was a magician already, if he is using his magic to fight for the Emperor. A bit of flashing light from their wands of oak and pear should not be so disquieting. None of those men and women seem happy when the ceremony is done, though irritatingly, most of their ire is centered on her.

The wedding feast is awkward, not because she feels out of place, but because Hrodwunn’s ire has been stirred. She spends the entire meal using her command of all she has learned to make Bernardus’s guests stutter and stammer like fools as she proves that she is more educated in matters they themselves could never hope to comprehend.

“It isn’t nice to treat our guests as such,” Colobert murmurs in a low voice.

“They should have remembered their manners during the wedding ceremony, then, and kept their ill thoughts to themselves,” Hrodwunn replies.

Hrodwunn waits until she is alone with her mother and two trusted servants. It takes all three of them working in tandem to get her out of this ridiculous gown. “Bernardus’s family seems leery of magic, given that they came to see magical kin wed,” she says, finally broaching the matter.

Theudelinda’s lips thin in disapproval. “After today, you need not concern yourself with them at all. Bernardus is joining our family; you do not have to treat with his kin unless they attempt to invade.”

“If they attempt to invade rather than seek hospitality, they will seek nothing else ever again,” Hrodwunn mutters. The servants giggle, and Theudelinda’s expression seems less harsh.

Bernardus is a _terrible_ lover. He does not try to hurt her, but it is obvious that he lacks both experience and knowledge. That will never do. She is not going to spread her legs for this man in hopes of pregnancy unless she takes some measure of enjoyment from the experience.

“Allow me to educate you,” she hisses at him, taking his bristly-haired sack in an iron grip. “Or you will never stick that ridiculous pintel anywhere but the greased bore of a rotting tree.”

“You are a terrifying woman.” Bernardus winces when she gives his testiculis a warning squeeze. “Er—education. That might be best, yes. Where did you learn—?”

“By listening to those who could afford to lie with others without concern of it ruining their ability to make a good marriage,” Hrodwunn replies, irritated. “Now, you will listen to me, or there will be no telltale sign on the sheets in the morning for others to observe and be pleased by.” That is also ridiculous, a misleading notion crafted by idiots, but Hrodwunn is not above picking her finger to smear the sheet with blood. If it were not for a need to consummate this marriage for the Heirs that are necessary, she would do _only_ that and then maker her new fool of a husband sleep by the hearth.

After Bernardus listens to her, their second attempt at joining as husband and wife is better. It is definitely not any sort of soaring glory, but practice might rectify that. At least Bernardus does not seem to be averse to the idea of practice.

Hrodwunn never gave her body much consideration before. Tonight she does so after Bernardus is asleep, snoring off the wine served during their wedding feast. She stands naked before her sleeping chamber’s gilded mirror and studies her reflection.

Now that she has escaped those uncomfortable combs, her hair is again almost sleek and proper. It is dark, the color of a raven’s wing instead of the pure black of perfect ink, and hangs almost to her waist. Others want Hrodwunn to grow her hair longer, but this is quite long enough.

Her face is not displeasing, her features rather angular and striking. She does not spend much time out of doors, but she’s always had a faint brown cast to her skin, coloration that still sometimes presents itself from the family’s ancient southern bloodline.

Her breasts are shaped like the lower halves of ripe pears, and almost as firm. Her waist is trim, perhaps bordering on too thin. The muscles on her arms and legs are solid from climbing the many stairs within the keep and the steep hillsides in her duchy. Her most obvious feature is her eyes, which would be the same color as her family’s magic but for the lack of glow.

She is symmetrical, with no visible deformities that would cause others to treat her unkindly. No one says she is beautiful but for her parents, but they are wise enough to see all of who she is. It is her intelligence and her spirit that they include in their measure of beauty. That will have to suffice.

Hrodwunn learns during the rest of September, October, November, and December that she does not like coupling overly much…or perhaps it is Bernardus she does not like. She sometimes touches herself when her husband is away on his tours of the duchy, learning the land he will one day be responsible for. While the physical sensations are interesting, they do not capture her attention the way that an ancient scroll will. She feels more joy with a quill in her hand.

Perhaps she doesn’t like the physical at all?

That doesn’t seem quite right, but she has only one partner with whom to experiment, and she’d rather avoid Bernardus as much as possible. When she realizes in late January that she is pregnant, Hrodwunn is filled with vast relief. Bernardus lingers for an entire day to toast his good fortune before he leaves to join their Emperor for Otto’s attempts at conquering the principalities of the Apennine Peninsula which lie south of Rome.

Hrodwunn hopes he stays away until the baby is born. She is concerned with more important things than her traveling husband. Pregnancy is not to her taste at all, which makes Hrodwunn wonder how other women bear it. She is uncomfortable all the time. Her hips and pubis ache. Smells that were once pleasurable are horrendous. Foods that she hates are enjoyable; foods that she loves make her ill.

Forty weeks of this is nigh intolerable, but Hrodwunn reminds herself that Colobert and Theudelinda’s hearts will be eased when there is another Heir for the family duchy. Hrodwunn will do her best to provide multiple Heirs; she merely has to do so before the overzealous warrior she is wedded to dies in one of his foolish battles. She will not see Hrabanklawa lost to others who would not understand it, so she endures the pregnancy with a smile that is all gritted teeth.

Bernardus returns the week the Healers estimate that Hrodwunn will give birth. Hrodwunn nearly hexes him on sight until she realizes that he has given no offence except for daring to exist in her presence while Hrodwunn is miserable.

“That is not quite the welcome I expected upon my return.” Bernardus’s fair skin freckled and turned red in the southern sun, but otherwise took on no sign of color at all.

“Very well. Next time, you will spend forty weeks growing a child in your belly, and I will fight against the enemies of our Emperor.”

Bernardus is outraged. “Women cannot fight in the Emperor’s armies! You are not fit!”

Hrodwunn stares at him before she starts laughing. “Can’t fight—not fit—you truly pay no attention to things of import, do you?”

“What do you mean?” Bernardus asks, looking wary. He learned to fear her tongue as well as her wand, and being away for eight months has not caused his wariness to fade. Good.

“Bavaria is an eastern duchy within this Empire. The duchy of Hrabanklawa is very close to our eastern borders. If the Slavic peoples decide to attack again—as they have before—then we _all_ fight, Bernardus. Not just the men. Not just the magicians. We all defend our homes, man, woman, and child, and we do so very well.”

He is still disapproving. “Women should not fight. You are delicate, and it is a man’s duty to protect you.”

Hrodwunn rolls her eyes in disbelief. “Husband, I am about to squeeze a child larger than a calebasse gourd through a passage that is most decidedly smaller. Do not speak to me of things that are delicate until you have performed the very same feat!”

Her firstborn son comes into the world on the tenth day of the tenth month of 969, a fortnight before Hrodwunn’s seventeenth birthday. If Hrodwunn thought pregnancy was awful, then childbirth is exhausting. She has a non-magical midwife and a magical healer, and the pains are greatly lessened thanks to their efforts, but by her goddess, it is such _effort_.

By the time she holds an unhappy, red-faced bundle, the midwife is dealing with the afterbirth. Both of them wish for Hrodwunn to eat the child’s placenta, as is customary after harsh pregnancies. Hrodwunn would sooner eat a man’s greased bore in a tree stump. If they wish her to eat red meat, they can slaughter a cow. The placenta will be buried under one of the great trees as a tribute to Baduhenna. Birthing a child is also a battle.

Bernardus greets his new son and wishes to call him Houdin, a name from Auvergne. It is not an unpleasant name, so Hrodwunn agrees. Then Bernardus is gone again before the child is finished with his first meal. He is assured of an Heir; now Bernardus’s chief concern is once again fighting for Emperor Otto in the name of God.

If he dies, Hrodwunn is going to be far more particular about her next spouse, but she does not actually want Bernardus dead yet. She would prefer to have her Heirs while she is still young enough to recover from the difficulties of pregnancy quickly. She has no wish to be infirm.

Bernardus might fight on behalf of his Emperor, but Hrodwunn protects her duchy while learning from her parents how best to run the household. Colobert is an excellent duelist, and those who do not shield against his magic will bear those scars forever. Theudelinda is a master of water, and the sky will flood the fields of battle on her command.

Hrodwunn’s second mastery of the magical written word might seem useless in battle, but combined with her knowledge of runes and maths both magical and mundane, she is able to gain them advantages in trade, in siege situations, in diplomacy, and all manner of instances where a clever mind is of more use than a duelist’s wand. Mind Magic’s talents all but fall into place for her afterwards. Between those three specializations in magic and her own studies, Hrodwunn is somewhat content.

 _Somewhat_. Hrodwunn doesn’t understand why her contentment is not complete. She has a spouse who does not harm her and who is away much of the time. She has parents who love her. She has an excellent home and the means to study and learn all she likes. Her son is hale, growing strong and well with no signs of any fearful childhood ailments. Houdin is non-magical, but he is _hers_ , and Hrodwunn loves her son with a fierceness that surprises her.

Hrodwunn is still not content. She has no idea how to fill this strange gap in her life.

 


	2. Theophanu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her wand is the last thing she reaches for when it comes to solving problems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am currently running The Fundraiserening via my tumblr (deadcatwithaflamethrower). @jahaliel bought a chapter, so you guys get an early update!
> 
> (All hail continued beta awesome peeps of @norcumi, @mrsstanley, & @sanerontheinside!)

When Houdin is old enough to concentrate on words without immediately dozing off at her breast or on her shoulder, Hrodwunn begins to teach him to read. She has to dig through several storage chests to find the books from her own childhood first, as she doubts her infant will be terribly enamored with Ptolemy.

She isn’t terribly enamored of Ptolemy, either. She has no patience for arrogant idiots. She is married to one; that is quite enough to contend with.

Hrodwunn casts protection—and waterproofing—magics on each book and then reads aloud, her fingers underneath each Latin word so that Houdin’s pale blue eyes can associate the two together. This, at least, makes her feel as if she has less of a gap in her life, less of an odd cavern in her chest. She enjoys teaching her son to read, and takes small joys in demonstrating the first simple, harmless bits of magic for him. Her son may have no magic of his own, but that does not mean he should be ignorant of it.

Colobert and Theudelinda wish for Hrodwunn to have rooms befitting her new status as wife and mother. Hrodwunn balks at the idea of supplanting her parents from their own quarters in the keep, takes up her wand, and magically enlarges her own until they meet with grudging approval.

“Honestly,” Hrodwunn mutters while Houdin claps his small hands together, delighted by the demonstration of magic used to create additional space within set physical boundaries. “If it was such a concern, you should have asked me to do this in the first place.”

“Your wand will not always solve your problems for you,” Colobert says.

She gives her father a look of puzzlement. Her wand is the last thing she reaches for when it comes to solving problems.

Hrodwunn would have no concerns about attending the Imperial Court in Saxony the winter Houdin turns three but for one thing: Bernardus is home, and will be attending the royal gathering in Quedlinburg Castle in her company.

She could think of so many ways to be driven to mental sluggishness that are more enjoyable. At this point in her brief marriage, she has quite the long list.

Houdin remains home with the women of the keep, watched over by Kunibert. Colobert, Theudelinda, Hrodwunn, and Bernardus attend to the palace. Hrodwunn is prepared for the lengthy decrees that usually occur before the Christmas feasts. She’s surprised when the only announcement that the Emperor seems truly concerned with is the introduction of the Princess Theophanu Skleraina of Constantinople, wife of the younger Emperor Otto II and Church-recognized Empress Consort of the Roman Empire.

“I will admit, even after hearing of their marriage in April, I didn’t expect them to return from Rome so soon,” Bernardus mutters under his breath.

“At least neither of them are _twelve_ ,” Hrodwunn returns in a scathing whisper. The young Emperor and his wife are both seventeen now, but were sixteen when they married in April. Hrodwunn is a bit envious that they were a year older than she was when need dictated she marry Bernardus.

Otto’s wife, Theophanu, has the complexion of a woman from the lands north of Greece, and sounds as if she is intelligent, educated, and insightful. She is wearing a heavy gown composed not of fine wool or linens, but silk over two more gowns of lighter fabric. All are dyed a bright, golden yellow with beautiful patterns woven through the fabric. The color is not so unusual, but the jewelry the new Empress wears is excessive by all Frankish standards. Hrodwunn will readily admit that it suits Theophanu well, and she does not seem weighed down by all of that gold, but her husband’s expensive dress seems plain in comparison.

There is some muttering about the new queen’s sinful excess, but Hrodwunn finds herself longing for silk of her own. She does not mind fine linen, but wool has always left her red, blotchy, and itching. Reading about peoples to the East of Constantinople has informed Hrodwunn that silk is as warm as wool if worn in proper layers.

Other than that…other than that, the new couple appear to be quite happy. It is clear that Otto and Theophanu are not only well-matched, but wholly in love with one another. It is the only time in Hrodwunn’s life that she has felt the vicious sting of envy.

Hrodwunn abandons Bernardus to the company of other nobles he went to war with in the south, to his complete pleasure. Her parents are occupied by speaking with the Duchess Judith, her son Henry—who is now twenty-one and no less annoying for it—and Duchess Gisele, who is visibly pregnant. Hrodwunn hopes their first child is less annoying than his father.

Thus freed, Hrodwunn is able to wander the gathering, eavesdropping on a number of conversations without being noticed. She does not even need magic to do so. It is too easy as a woman to be overlooked in the Imperial Court. Half of Otto’s noble guests seem pleased by the marriage, and the others distraught to the point of bloodshed that the Emperor settled for peace with the Eastern Roman Empire for a “bauble bride” instead of continuing conquest and claiming the whole of the Apennine Peninsula. She chooses to ignore both groups, as Otto has never once given their counsel any serious contemplation. It is Otto II and Theophanu who will rule, and too few seem to recognize that political overtures should be begun now, not later. The young Emperor has spent so many of his years in Rome that none of them know what sort of ruler he will be when his father finally dies.

Hrodwunn escapes out into the courtyard for a time, glad that servants cleared the brick paths of snow. She is wearing a gown meant for a proper Bavarian winter in a stone keep, and the Emperor’s halls are far too warm when so many living bodies are crowding them. It is a relief to greet cold air, to glance up and see the stars twinkling overhead.

“ _O! Me sygnómi!_ ”

She turns away from contemplation of the sky to realize that the new Empress Consort is standing in the path before her. “ _Den chreiázetai na zitísete syngnómi, kyría kyríarcha._ ”

Theophanu’s expression brightens, making Hrodwunn realize how much misery she was attempting to hide. “You speak Greek!” she exclaims with a wide smile. “I’m so glad! Dear Otto tries, but he only knows Latin.”

Hrodwunn needs a moment to remind herself that Theophanu refers to Otto II, not Otto the Elder, who likely has never been dear to anyone in his life, his own wives included. “Does no one else speak Greek for you, Your Majesty?”

“Oh, no, please—my name is Theophanu. If you speak the language of my home, I insist upon it!”

Hrodwunn tries not to panic over the idea of calling one of their Imperial Majesties by name alone. Otto I would murder her, and then her parents might resurrect and murder what remains. “I—”

“Worry not. I will not be informing my charming new father that I’ve dared to let a commoner refer to me as if I were the same,” Theophanu says dryly.

“Oh, but what would he say about you allowing such familiarity from the nobility?” Hrodwunn asks.

“The Emperor thinks none are nobility but for himself and his son…and since I will bear his grandchildren, he has seen fit to extend that definition to include me.” Theophanu steps forward and greets Hrodwunn in the Byzantine fashion. “You know who I am. Please tell me of your name, friend.”

Friend. Hrodwunn has never actually had one of those before. That would be lovely to experience, and that is what finalizes her decision. “I am Her Excellency Duchess Hrodwunn Hrabanklawa from the east of Bavaria, Your Majesty Theophanu. My parents are the esteemed Duke Colobert and Theudelinda of Hrabanklawa. My husband is Duke Bernardus Thomas, formerly of Lorraine.”

“Oh. Him,” Theophanu says, making a sour face.

Hrodwunn and Theophanu stare at each other before they both break out in identical-sounding giggles at the same moment.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Theophanu gasps, but she doesn’t stop laughing.

Hrodwunn wipes at her eyes while shaking her head. “No—no. No apologies are necessary for that, either. I am wed to him and know exactly what you mean. I have spent the entire evening envious of the happiness you seem to have found with young Otto.”

“We _are_ happy,” Theophanu admits. She takes Hrodwunn’s arm in a gentle grip, as a sister would, and guides them further down the path. “It makes living in such a strange place bearable. At least Rome gave me the blessing of being warm, but here it is…”

“Cold. In more ways than one,” Hrodwunn finishes.

Theophanu’s brow furrows. “It is not my imagination, then. Women are…I am long used to the idea that I would be married for my Empire’s political gain, Hrodwunn. I am _not_ accustomed to being so disregarded within my own household!”

“I am most fortunate,” Hrodwunn says. “My parents would never do such, even if I had not been their only child. I bested my husband in magical combat before we were wed, so he dares not overrule me…but had I shown any weakness at all, he would attempt to.”

“Weakness.” Theophanu’s frown gentles. “Then I will show no weakness to any in my new Court or in my new home. If that is how things are done in the Western Roman Empire, then I will play such a game the way I would play any game of politics.”

“Theophanu.” Hrodwunn grants herself a moment to get over the strangeness of referring to her Empress in such a manner. “I believe I am already fond of you.”

“You are speaking Greek to soothe a silly girl. I am more than fond of you,” Theophanu replies.

“A confession: my son turned three and I became nineteen just this past October.”

Theophanu glances at her in surprise. “The way you carry yourself, your bearing—you seem much older.”

Hrodwunn makes a noncommittal sound. Unlike the nonexistent declarations of her beauty, she has heard others say that of her before. Hrodwunn suspects it is because she is not hapless and uninformed when troubles attempt to visit the duchy. “Perhaps it is motherhood. I find it…invigorating, I suppose.”

“Do you?” Theophanu’s expression melts into longing. “I do so want a child. It was one of the reasons I was willing to consent in 967, though the decision was not made until my uncle Nikephoros claimed the Imperial throne. I worry I will not be a good mother.”

“If you want the child, you will be a good mother,” Hrodwunn assures her. “You might make mistakes, but love and desire fuel everything we do for our children. It is those who are ambivalent, those who do not care, who do not make good parents.” She has seen her parents forced to punish those who acted thus, and their children were unhappy, poorly in spirit and body. It takes the right sort of fostering to help a child recover from poor parentage.

Theophanu takes Hrodwunn’s hand. “Thank you. Please, whenever your duchy can spare you, visit me here in the palace. I fear my time might otherwise be dreary. Bring your son; I would know him as I know my new friend.”

Hrodwunn finds herself smiling. “As you have issued Imperial invitation, I cannot refuse.” Then she adds, “But if one were to perhaps issue such an invitation with an accompanying bribe of silk, I would be most grateful.”

Theophanu looks surprised. “What? No words of how terrible it is to wear such rich fabric and tempt God’s wrath?”

“I _hate_ wool,” Hrodwunn replies in scowling disapproval. Her new friend laughs.

Bavaria celebrates when word is quickly spread by magical messengers that the Duchess Gisele has born a healthy son on the sixth day of Maius. He is named Henry IV in honor of his father, grandfather, and the boy who would have been his royal first cousin had Empress Adelheid’s first son survived infancy.

The Empire’s joy is short-lived. The very next day, the few trusted magicians in the Imperial Court spread the word that their Emperor has died unexpectedly while visiting his father’s old palace at Memleben.

“An ill omen,” Colobert murmurs when all but the family is distracted by the news. “His own father died there.”

“Then perhaps he understood exactly why he was going to see his childhood home,” Theudelinda replies. Hrodwunn nods in absent agreement, but is distracted by how irritating it is going to be to pretend to mourn a man that she found distasteful. She visited Quedlinburg for a full month during the winter after the new year and found Otto II to be warm and charming—odd, considering neither of his parents share those traits. She enjoyed Theophanu’s company, but the Emperor’s presence in a room pulled all the joy from any conversation or pursuit.

Her family does something that is banned within the boundaries of East Francia: they use magical travel to arrive in time for Otto II’s confirmation as Emperor the next day. Hrodwunn is less concerned with the politics involved and more interested in being present for the sake of her friends.

Friends. Her friends, the only ones she has, are the Emperor and Empress Consort of the Western Roman Empire. Sometimes Hrodwunn can’t get past that very baffling idea.

Otto I, Emperor of the Romans, is given a three-day funeral of state before he is interred with his first wife, Queen Ædgyth, Princess of the English, at Magdeburg Cathedral. Hrodwunn does not quite understand the Christian obsession with burying the dead within their holy buildings. Burials in the earth at least seem to be more in line with the return of the body, but Hrodwunn has also heard tell of Christians who believe their bodies must remain undisturbed by the elements so they can be resurrected for direct ascension to Heaven. She bit her tongue and did not tell them that in magical circles, they refer to that particular miracle as Necromancy.

The politics of the next several years do _not_ change Hrodwunn’s opinion as to Otto I’s fatal blind spot. He gave his son no offices, no title but that of co-Emperor, allowed Otto II no authority at all…and now that Otto I is dead, that lack of perceived power is like an earthquake’s constant rumble throughout the Empire. The Saxon nobles squabble and try to limit the Emperor’s power. To placate Duke Henry, Otto gives him control of two more Imperial estates in Bavaria in June of that year. Henry, who has no idea what gratitude means, chooses to act without royal permission and attempts to exert control over Swabia using the Church. When Duke Burchard III of Swabia dies that hærfest season with no Heir, Henry demands that he be made Duke of Swabia as well as Duke of Bavaria.

The new Emperor puts his Imperial foot down upon Henry’s childish ambitions and instead names his half-brother Liudolf’s son Otto as the new Duke of Swabia. Politically, it is as bad a choice as it is an excellent one. Otto is loyal to his uncle the Emperor, but the new Duke Otto also loathes Duke Henry II of Bavaria. Now they share a border.

“Oh, this is not going to end well,” Theudelinda says. “Henry is proving to be exactly like his father already.”

“If Henry I was an idiot as a young man, then I could have told you that a decade ago,” Hrodwunn mutters. She and her mother are both proven correct a short time later. Duke Henry and his conspirators are made to go before Otto II and confess their sin of plotting rebellion against the Emperor to avoid excommunication by the Church. Unlike his father, Otto II is not kind to noble conspirators, and Henry II is imprisoned. Duke Otto of Swabia is granted dominion over Bavaria in Henry’s place. It is the most peace that Bavaria has enjoyed since the idiot attained his majority.

It is as if the Empire thinks its Emperor is not drowning in enough political tasks. Otto I’s last papal appointment, Pope Benedict VI, is imprisoned in Rome by the Crescentius family, who had supported Franco to be the Pope over Benedict. Otto sends representatives with a small military force—Bernardus happily included—to secure the Pope’s release. Instead, Benedict is murdered in captivity before the Imperial envoy arrives. Franco seizes the papacy under a new name of Boniface VII.

Idiots. Otto II is kinder than his father, but he witnessed many of Otto I’s military campaigns. His appointed envoy and accompanying soldiers take possession of Rome, forcing Boniface VII to flee. Boniface chooses to take refuge in, of all places, Constantinople. That does _not_ help the people of the Empire have faith in their Emperor and his Greek wife.

It does end the campaign for Rome, and yet another new Pope is chosen. Then there is a brief campaign in Denmark when King Gorm took offence at the idea of bowing to the new Emperor. Finally, the military disperses to return home, and Hrodwunn resigns herself to coping with her husband’s unwanted presence once more.

At least Bernardus has become a better lover since his departure. By practicing with others.

Hrodwunn is so very glad that her mother taught her the proper healing spells to read a man’s blood before she laid with him for the first time after his return. She pins Bernardus down with her magic and uses her voice to tear him to shreds. “If you again bring home a disease that comes from coupling with another, it will be the very last thing you _ever_ do,” Hrodwunn tells him in a scathing voice. “You tell me not to sully myself with others and then do worse to yourself? Do you know what such a disease would have done to any Heir you fathered?” She sends her fool of a husband and his tattered dignity to the healers, who will eradicate the disease he acquired.

Bernardus does not seem pleased to be faced with continued wrath after his return, but he bows his head in contrition. “It will not happen again.”

“Be more specific, and do not utter oaths that you do not intend to keep,” Hrodwunn retorts. “I know you will dip your ridiculous pintel somewhere else, with someone else. What will you _not_ do again?”

He grinds his teeth. “I will not ever again dishonor you by returning home bearing a disease from coupling with another.”

Hrodwunn nods, appeased. “Good.” That is all she can realistically expect, but he will keep to his word.

“Will you lie with others, then?” Bernardus asks.

She gives him a look of complete scorn. “And have someone be able to prove with magic that any child resulting from such a union was not sired by my husband, and thus ineligible to be my Heir? Don’t be ridiculous.”

As if her words were prophecy, she is pregnant again within the month. Hrodwunn does not want to lie with her husband any more than is necessary, but they will _not_ find themselves as bereft of Heirs as Otto I.

Her lack of desire is not the reason it has taken five years for her belly to again swell with child. The blame for that stems from Bernardus’s desire to be a soldier for his God. Given what is written in their holy texts, Hrodwunn suspects that the Christian God would prefer other tributes and dedications, but the policies of the Imperial-empowered Church and the Empire’s politics often control that religion rather than knowledge and faith. Hrodwunn thinks that an unfortunate and dangerous combination.

It’s a relief to dwell on something as mundane and frustrating as pregnancy, given that it requires most of her focus so that Hrodwunn does not spend all of her time living in a privy. Bernardus is absent once more—he lost interest the moment it was Divined that this child would be a girl. Hrodwunn is glad he is gone just as much as she is frustrated that he seems to have forgotten that he has a duchy to oversee. When the worst of the morning sicknesses have passed, Hrodwunn finds that seeing to those duties, be they of utmost importance or minor minutiae, to be soothing.

At the beginning of hærfest, Hrodwunn takes her minor retinue of servants, Houdin, and Theudelinda to Quedlinburg on the Empress’s invitation. Theophanu is also pregnant with her second child; two-year-old Princess Adelheid is absolutely fascinated by Houdin’s presence among her Courtly playmates. Hrodwunn wears sapphire blue silks woven with bronze in Court without apology or regret, enjoying the weight of the new silver cuffs at her wrists and the delicate silver torque at her throat.

Hrodwunn reminds herself that her family needs Heirs, and grimly shouts obscenities through another round of childbirth. Her first daughter is born in the early morning on the ninth day of September in 975 while Hrodwunn is in the company of her mother and her dear friend.

The baby has a faint crown of white-blonde hair and an infant’s common blue eyes. Unlike Houdin, she shares her father’s pale complexion, but even as an infant she bears it better than Bernardus. Hrodwunn names the child Adelheidis, commonly spoken as Alicia in the Latin. Unlike the Princess Adelheid, whose name means _kind noble_ , Adelheidis is _noble iron_. One born of Bavaria should bear a fierce shield, especially a woman. It is the sort of name that will allow her daughter to acknowledge the station of her birth and then define herself beyond its narrow scope.

Hrodwunn oversees the birth of the new Princess Sophia in November. All those in Quedlinburg breathe a sigh of relief when both infants make it through the winter without any hint of sickness.

When she returns to Hrabanklawa after the snows end with her expanded family, Hrodwunn’s arrival in her personal office is heralded by a raven. She has no sooner flung open the windows to let in the warmer air when it flies inside to perch on her desk. The raven is just losing the feathers of a fledgling, making it very young indeed. Those rare birds who are born before the snow do not usually survive to see lencten.

Hrodwunn stares at the raven, which cocks its head and stares back. Then it steals her favorite quill and flies off before she can stun the young idiot bird.

“Very well. Perhaps you need it more than I do,” Hrodwunn says. She checks to be certain all of her books, papers, wax, candles, and other quills are secure in her office, that no ink has dried during her absence, and leaves the window open while she returns to tending Adelheidis. Six-year-old Houdin adores his infant sister. He will sit on the floor next to her, placing small wooden toys into her chubby hands over and over again, thrilled each time she successfully holds the toy for longer than a few seconds. Even if some of his favorite children’s toys become covered with an excess of infant spittle, he still does not mind.

When Hrodwunn goes into her office the next morning after feeding Adelheidis and seeing to it that Houdin does not wheedle sweets out of his grandparents instead of breakfast, the raven is waiting on her windowsill. It waits until it has her certain attention, drops a feather of a type she has never seen before, and flies away again.

Hrodwunn picks it up and turns it over and over in her hands, curious. The primary feather has an iridescent sheen and is the perfect shade of blue to resemble the most beautiful of sapphires—the same color as Hrabanklawa’s magic. When the sapphire blue feather is sharpened, it is an immediate improvement over the stolen quill, and quickly becomes her favorite.

Not even the servants know what sort of bird produced such a feather, though one of them suggests that it could be from Egypt. Irritatingly, there are no books on Egyptian birds anywhere in Bavaria unless the Church, for some strange reason, is hiding them all.

The raven is on her windowsill again, the third morning in a row. “Well. What shall I do with you, then?” Hrodwunn asks the raven. She suspects he is male, given the way he likes to strut back and forth across the wooden ledge. He is also quite obviously goddess-sent, a raven for the duchy named for the raven’s claw.

The raven opens his beak, _urks_ at her, and departs. Hrodwunn rolls her eyes, amused, and settles her correspondence before returning to her children. Houdin is now learning his maths in earnest as well as his second language. Adelheidis chirps along with every word of Greek that Houdin recites. Hrodwunn suspects that her son will never love the language, but he will be able to speak and trade with those of the Eastern Roman Empire.

Hrodwunn goes to make her morning office visit, and the raven returns. When he flies from the windowsill to perch on her desk, there is something dirt-encrusted hanging from his beak. The feathered fiend waits until he has her attention and then drops his gift directly onto the letter she was composing, ruining the paper. Then he hops aside so she can investigate his muddy offering.

When Hrodwunn clears away the dirt of long years, she is holding a bronze pendant of ancient design. It is set with a perfect, dusk-sky sapphire. Not only did he give her a unique feather, but now the raven has brought her an item that bears the colors of her House. She uses a handkerchief to clear away more dirt, finding the place for a chain or bit of leather to slide through for wearing.

The maker’s mark on the back is inscribed as a symbol with a date: Mar. 452. In Martius of 452, Attila marched upon the city of Rome, but this is not of ancient Roman make. This is the artistry of Gaul, and it is exactly five hundred twenty-four years old. Pendants were not common pieces of jewelry at the time, but there is no mistaking that a pendant is exactly what it must be.

“Thank you,” Hrodwunn says to the raven, who bobs his head. “I suppose my patron must have sent you. I shall have to decide on a name.” She gives him a bit of bread while she thinks.

“Bertram,” she decides. The raven Bertram caws in pleased agreement and then steals the rest of her breakfast.

Hrodwunn rinses her new treasure in water and then rubs it with leather until the pendant glows in the sun, revealing its fine workmanship. Then she finds a sturdy bronze chain that will resist an infant’s attempts at yanking it free and wears it about her neck. Her mother thinks it a fine gift from Hrodwunn’s new familiar. Her father teases her about being owned by a raven. Hrodwunn does not deny either of these statements.

Just after Bertram’s arrival, someone releases Duke Henry II from prison. It was not on Otto’s order, who is angered by Henry’s sudden and unexpected freedom. His ire is further stirred when no one will confess to knowing Henry’s whereabouts, worsened when the Saxon nobles join in Henry’s newest rebellion. Theophanu later reports that her husband finally—justifiably—lost his temper, stripping Henry II of his titles before the Church excommunicated him.

Theudelinda travels to Quedlinburg and offers to divine Henry’s hiding place on Otto’s behalf. It is a secret work that no one in the royal palace aside from Theudelinda and Otto II will know of, but the results are most unwanted.

“It is not enough that he returns to Bavaria as if he has full right to be here,” Theudelinda hisses in a rage when she returns to Hrabanklawa. “Duke Henry has made Ratisbon his stronghold.”

For once, Hrodwunn is glad to see her husband strap on armor, weapons, and helm, leaving with a grim expression to fight against their own stupid duke. Their duchy of Hrabanklawa is to the north and east of Ratisbon and escapes the worst of the fighting, but Ratisbon is her mother’s birthplace. Seeing the city under the siege of the Emperor’s armies causes Theudelinda to weep often.

Then Dowager Empress Adelheid and Theophanu are at odds. Each is suspicious of the others’ motivations, and the situation escalates until Otto II is dealing not only with Henry II’s nonsense, but is openly feuding with his mother.

When Henry II flees Ratisbon to hide with in the duchy of Bohemia, Otto’s wrath against his cousin is not abated. The Emperor reduces the size of Bavaria by a full third, creating the Duchy of Carinthia in the south. Hrabanklawa in the north is still within the bounds of Bavaria, but many of their neighbors to the south find themselves led by the new Duke Henry III, son of Berthold, who held the duchy of Bavaria several years before Hrodwunn was born.

The Emperor’s first attempt to invade Bohemia and retrieve Henry II fails. During his second attempt, Duke Henry III and one of Bavaria’s own bishops starts another revolt in Bavaria. If Hrodwunn did not have small children to look after, she would join her husband _and_ her parents in helping Otto deal with yet another passel of idiots.

After all the assorted conspirators are rounded up in preparation for judgement during an Imperial Diet, set to take place after the Lencten Equinox, it becomes obvious that Bernardus lingered just long enough in Hrabanklawa to leave Hrodwunn with child again. That, she decides, is yet another good omen. Hrabanklawa’s first two Heirs have already proven to be healthy children. A third would be a blessing from the goddess herself.

 

_(Only known work depicting the Empress Theophanu)_


	3. Cursed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adelheidis is the wind of Baduhenna’s strength. Helena will be the fire of Baduhenna’s breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three people contributed to The Fundraisening to purchase this chapter and see it posted early! <3 They are badasses.

On the thirty-first of Martius, Otto treats well with many of the co-conspirators, but Henry II is once again imprisoned. This time he is put under the watch of the Bishop of Utrecht, who swears an oath to the Emperor that Henry will remain as his charge until the Emperor grants him leave to do otherwise. Duke Henry III is officially exiled. Duke Otto I of Swabia, appointed Duke of Bavaria when the wind turned fell in 976, remains Bavaria’s overlord. The result of Otto’s feud with his mother has become clear; the dowager empress retreated to Burgundy and lives under the protection of her brother, King Conrad.

Hrodwunn would like it very much if the Empire would please do itself the grand favor of becoming a calmer political entity.

Houdin was a placid, biddable baby, and grew into a child of good intelligence, but he retains that same placid manner. It is probably for the best that he was born without magic, as Hrodwunn isn’t certain Houdin would ever decide upon what to do with that sort of talent. Being Heir to Hrabanklawa seems to please Houdin well enough.

She has to bite her tongue when Houdin approaches her—it is always Hrodwunn, never Bernardus—and says that he wishes to pledge himself to the Church. It is still not her place to decide her son’s faith, even if she finds fault with many of those who follow that religion. Hrodwunn asks only that Houdin _not_ behave as they do, and if so, she will then support his faith as he supports hers.

Houdin frowns in dismay. “The bishop says that I’m not to support false gods.”

Hrodwunn raises an eyebrow as she stares down at her young son. “Does the bishop not also say that one should honor their father and mother?”

“Yes, Mother.” Houdin bites his lip. “I don’t understand why I’m told both. They do not…”

“Those things contradict one another,” Hrodwunn finishes when Houdin struggles to find the right words. “Yes, they do. You will have to look beyond what you are told. If you wish for proper understanding, you must not take the words of others as true. You must find the truth of your faith for yourself.”

“But the priests—”

“Are flawed beings. Even priests and bishops can lie, my son, and if they feel it is to their benefit, they have no concerns for their sin,” Hrodwunn says.

“Yes, Mother,” Houdin replies. “I will do my best.”

“You are a good child, Houdin. I know that you will.”

By summer, it is a certainty. Unlike her brother, Adelheidis is _not_ a biddable infant. Despite favoring her father in appearance with her blonde hair and wide snub nose, she does not act like Bernardus at all. She roams the duchy the moment she finds her legs, wild and free, singing with the joy of Baduhenna.

Bertram encourages every single one of Adelheidis’s exploits as an infant’s wobble becomes a small child’s confident leaps. Hrodwunn reminds herself that it is probably not polite to strangle her own familiar.

Hrabanklawa’s magic sparks at Adelheidis’s fingertips and in her blue eyes…and at the tip of her wand. She claims it on her third birthday, a fallen branch from the great spruce tree where the placenta from Houdin’s birth was buried in 969.

Hrodwunn studies the spruce branch from end to end. While it is simple in appearance, there is no doubting that it is a magician’s wand. It is too large for Adelheidis now, but will be excellent when her daughter grows taller. She is curious as to what sort of core a goddess might have placed into the wand, but isn’t fool enough to dismantle it in an attempt to find out.

She still has no idea what sort of core is in her own pear wand. Sometimes that lack of knowing makes her itch, but it is her wand and it works as it should, as she often reminds herself.

Theudelinda is overjoyed that the duchy’s second Heir was granted a wand by Baduhenna herself, one that needs no tinkering by a wandmaker to be true in Adelheidis’s hand. Colobert thinks it a fine and good omen for their home and family. Given the threat of rebellion within the duchy that continues to linger over their heads, Hrodwunn believes they need all of the good omens it is possible to receive.

Hrodwunn’s second daughter is born on the first day of Augustus in 978. Hrodwunn traces the infant’s blood-reddened features, which are not dissimilar from her own. Her second daughter has a tuft of dark hair already. It will not be the black of a raven’s wing, but some interesting shade of brown. That the baby is magical is not in doubt at all; the torches flared brighter when the infant took her first breath and let it out in an indignant shriek.

Bernardus will not name this child, either. He is in his old home in Lorraine near Aachen, preparing for a potential invasion of West Francia on behalf of Duke Charles of Lower Lorraine.

“Helena,” Hrodwunn whispers. It is not a Bavarian name, but a Greek one rooted in the Hellenistic. The bright flame, the guiding torch. Adelheidis is the wind of Baduhenna’s strength. Helena will be the fire of Baduhenna’s breath.

Hrodwunn’s parents doted on their first two grandchildren already, and accept Helena into the fold as if the infant has always been present. Theudelinda and Colobert treat Hrodwunn’s children no differently than they treated Hrodwunn herself. They support all of their endeavors, from Houdin’s schooling, Adelheidis’s first lessons in writing—the first she would sit still for—and Helena’s attempts at sitting up and babbling.

After Helena’s first birthday, Hrodwunn’s mother dies. It is sudden and entirely unexpected that a magician in good health would die at the age of forty-three. The healers can determine no cause for it at all. They know only that Theudelinda’s body failed during the night, and her soul was gone with the dawn.

Helena knows something is wrong and sniffles constantly. Adelheidis loved her grandmother and is nigh inconsolable. Houdin, nearing age ten, tries his best to be stoic for his sisters. Hrodwunn pulls him in close to her side, allowing him weep when they are alone.

She is strong for her children, but her heart feels like it is in pieces in her chest. Her husband is still fighting in West Francia with the Emperor. Even Theophanu accompanied her husband on this particular campaign.

Colobert is utterly shattered by his wife’s sudden loss and wanders the keep as if a ghost already. Hrodwunn watches her father and worries, not ready to see Colobert follow Theudelinda into shadow. She is only twenty-five years of age. She does not want to be responsible for the whole of Hrabanklawa, not yet. She doesn’t wish to _defend_ the duchy by herself, not when her husband is always absent, pointing his wand at distant threats instead of concerning himself with those that might come for his wife and Heirs.

Hrodwunn draws in a breath and laces her spine with steel. There is no one else but she.

In late lencten of 980, she receives word from Bernardus by falcon-delivered missive. The war against the Western Franks has ended in a stalemate, or peace, depending on how one regards the resulting treaty. Bernardus reports that the army is moving on to Nimeguen in the north, though he does not say why.

 _Come home, idiot_ , Hrodwunn thinks, but does not write down pointless requests. Instead, she wishes him a safe journey and hopes that the Emperor isn’t off to confront yet another war.

The next bird-delivered letter she receives comes directly from Theophanu in July. During the journey to Nimeguen, the Empress gave birth to twins, a boy and a girl. The boy has been named Otto III, a continuation of the dynasty. The girl she has named Theodora in honor of both herself and her Empire’s famous queen.

Hrodwunn has to put the letter aside, not certain if she feels bitterness of relief. The Empire has a male Heir, which is good, but she did not even know her friend was pregnant. Hrodwunn isn’t certain if that is her lapse, or if the war was such a distraction that Theophanu did not even have time to concern herself with childbearing. Otto and Theophanu now have five children, though the first three are girls and thus unimportant in the eyes of the Imperial throne. Young Adelheid and Sophia showed signs of being brilliant children. Matilda is still an infant that Hrodwunn has yet to meet, but Theophanu wrote of her as being both biddable and precocious.

Some days Hrodwunn loathes her kingdom’s dim view of women, but she does not know how to address the problem. She only knows how to avoid it.

The Papal States decide it is time to be ridiculous again. The entire royal family travels to Rome during the hærfest season. Bernardus goes with them; he has not returned to Hrabanklawa since he sired Helena. Hrodwunn does not miss him, but she does take a few moments each day to seethe over his absence from his responsibilities towards his own children.

The next letter Hrodwunn receives from Theophanu gives her heart a new reason to ache. The Princess Theodora died at the end of September, though whether it was illness or the death of a baby who was in poor health from birth, Theophanu does not say. Hrodwunn takes up her favored sapphire quill and writes her friend a letter, doing her best to console Theophanu in her grief. She might not have lost a child, but she has lost her mother. Hrodwunn manages her words with more care than she might have before learning the true pain of loss.

Duke Colobert of Hrabanklawa dies on the eighteenth of December that year at the age of forty-seven. The healers say his heart failed him, and Hrodwunn agrees. Her father’s heart broke in a way that no elixir, potion, magic, or herb could mend. She has a selfish moment of being glad that she does not love Bernardus. A man whose entire livelihood is devoted to war is not one who will live to be old. She will not have to face this same grief.

Steward Kunibert is also affected by the loss of his lord. He has always been kind to Hrodwunn, but says that he would rather retire in peace after his years of service. Hrodwunn makes certain he is sent to his home in the mountains in comfort, safety, and wealth.

She then chooses a good man named Adalberht, younger kin to the Master of Staff, as the new Steward for the keep of Hrabanklawa. She already knew him to be bright, efficient, and resourceful; Adalberht earns Hrodwunn’s complete trust in a very short time.

Adalberht earns Hrodwunn’s absolute gratitude by choosing to act as a surrogate father to her children. They have no real experience with a man acting as their father in truth rather than a distant sire and stranger. Helena drools on Adalberht’s tunics and earns his laughter. Adelheidis brings him odd rocks that the Steward cleans to reveal rough gemstones from the earth, and when she brings him twigs, he teaches her how to carve them into little flutes. Houdin witnesses Adalbert’s competence in running the keep, his steady, quiet manner, and utterly falls in love with their duchy’s new Steward. Hrodwunn decides that if her son is going to choose any man to emulate, better Adalberht than Bernardus.

It is beyond frustrating when word reaches her after Easter in 981 that Otto II has decided to make Rome the new capital of the Western Roman Empire. Hrodwunn’s responsibility is to her duchy and her children. She cannot simply away to Rome to visit her friends, much as she misses the Empress. Houdin and Adelheidis have also been affected by the royal family’s long absence from East Francia. They miss Princess Adelheid and Princess Sophia, whom they are accustomed to playing with during visits at Court.

Hrodwunn distracts herself and her children as best she can from the events taking place in Rome. She teaches them languages and maths, magic and astronomy. Helena reads early, before she can properly speak. She consumes the knowledge in the children’s books with a voracious appetite that Hrodwunn recognizes in herself: Helena wants to learn everything without yet having concern for where the lessons may apply.

Adelheidis settles in far more willingly for lessons in magic than of academics. Convincing Hrodwunn’s eldest daughter to join the duchy’s tutors for lessons in those things a lady of Hrabanklawa needs to know is a far more difficult matter. Adelheidis is less than impressed with life as a noble lady, and is far more interested in roaming the land with Bertram on her shoulder to act as protector and guide.

Hrodwunn knows already that Helena and Adelheidis will be talented magicians, but beyond that, she is uncertain what sort of lives they will lead. Houdin’s path is easier to determine. Now that he is older, Houdin truly looks forward to his life as future Duke of Hrabanklawa. He learns the best lessons of running a duchy at their Steward’s right hand rather than remaining in his mother’s company for advanced academic lessons. Hrodwunn thinks this a good arrangement. Her son is intelligent, but his interest lies in being a good overlord to his people, not in advancing his knowledge of algebra or ancient Greek history. Houdin will be good for the duchy, and the magic of Hrabanklawa still flows in his veins. As long as he marries another with magical blood, magic will return to Hrabanklawa with their children.

In the meantime, Hrodwunn must still attend Court in Quedlinburg Castle with the others of noble rank who have not departed for Rome. She grits her teeth and accepts that many of these fools are not Saxon enough to say her name properly, forcing herself to respond to Rowena rather than Hrodwunn. She wears a veil over her hair in the new Christian tradition to appease the Church, participating in prayers with her head bowed while mentally correcting the priest’s improper Latin.

Those things she will do, but Hrodwunn refuses to act like a simpering idiot. She speaks to the Archbishop in three different languages as she informs Otto’s acting agent of Hrabanklawa’s interests and status within the bounds of the Empire. The Archbishop bows and responds in _proper_ Latin, promising to send word to the Emperor that all is well in Hrodwunn’s part of Bavaria.

Hrodwunn continues to enjoy her correspondence with the Empress, whose letters are an intriguing blend of politics, diplomacy, joy in her children, and irritation with her mother-in-law Adelheid, Dowager Empress of the Roman Empire. They have more peaceable relations now than they did at the beginning of Theophanu’s marriage, but there is still the occasional clash of wills. Hrodwunn thinks that the Empress Adelheid and Theophanu could grow to be friends if given time and room enough to trust, but she is wise enough not to say such a thing to Theophanu.

Running a duchy, even a smaller magical duchy such as Hrabanklawa, takes up much of Hrodwunn’s time. It matters not that she has competent staff and loyal servants. There is much to be done, especially with rumors circulating that those to the east of the kingdom are eying its borders with interest in Otto’s absence. With her parents gone, Hrodwunn has little time to pursue her own studies. What time she has left after caring for Hrabanklawa is devoted to her children. They have tutors, yes, but as her parents did for Hrodwunn, she takes care in seeing how their education is progressing. Hrodwunn asks questions, or teaches them lessons as they become ready for them. Helena shows signs of outstripping both of her siblings in scholarly pursuits; Adelheidis is best with a wand; Houdin is the only one of the three patient enough to wish to understand the fine details involved in running a noble household. If he balks on one detail, it is that he must one day marry a woman of a magical bloodline, even if she herself does not use a wand.

“Why?” Houdin asks with a sulk line between his eyes. It’s one of the few unattractive traits he inherited from his father. “Why can I not hold to my faith in regards to my marriage? You said you respected my choices, Mother!”

“So I did,” Hrodwunn replies. She is still and calm, sensing that any hint of strong emotion might create true rebellion. Houdin has not yet seen his twelfth birthday. It should be too soon to consider finding her son a suitable bride, but his father has been at war for years. If ill befell both of his parents and Houdin were already contracted to wed, his gaining the title of Duke of Hrabanklawa will not be contested.

“I will always honor your choices as much as possible, but you stand to inherit a _magical_ duchy, dear son. There is no reason you cannot have your faith and magic as well. Even the Emperor respects those of us who carry wand or staff.” _For now_ , Hrodwunn thinks, and does not like that at all. It is a thought that does not feel as if it came from herself, and they need no more ill portents.

“If you wish to inherit and stand as Duke of Hrabanklawa after—” Hrodwunn stills her words in surprise as Steward Adalberht enters their private family room without waiting for permission. “Steward?”

“My apologies, Lady Hrodwunn.” Adalberht drops into a low bow. “This just came for you. Given its contents, I thought it best that it passed into your hand immediately.”

Hrodwunn reaches out and accepts the scroll, one which bears the broken seal of her House. “Adalberht, where did this come from?”

Adalberht looks deeply unhappy. “South of Rome, Lady Hrodwunn. The Emperor’s forces have been engaging with those of the Caliphate on the coast.”

Hrodwunn nods and unrolls the scroll, already knowing what she will find. The missive is the obvious work of a Court scribe, but it is obvious that the quill was born by a distressed hand.

 

_His Imperial Majesty Otto II, King of the East Franks, King of Italy, Emperor of the Romans_

_The City of Rome in the State of the Church, 24 th July in the Year of Our Lord 982_

_To Her Excellency the Lady Hrodwunn, Duchess of Hrabanklawa in the Duchy of Bavaria_

_We regret to inform you that Bernardus Thomas, Duke of Hrabanklawa, has fallen in battle during a confrontation with soldiers of the Fatimid Caliphate on 14 th July. The battle was nearly won before the enemy rallied and delivered a fierce defeat. Many fine soldiers and nobles of the Empire who fell remain lost to the enemy, and cannot be returned to their homes. We are sorry to inform you that his body is one of those who are lost._

_We thank you beyond words for the service and graciousness that Duke Bernardus provided for the Empire. May God bless you and your Heirs in the Duchy of Hrabanklawa._

 

Otto added a note written in his own hand that follows the harried work of the Court scribe.

 

_I am so very sorry for your loss, and for the loss your children will face. Bernardus was not a perfect man, but he fought well for what he believed in, and safeguarded the lives of many during his service. If I could find his body, I would return him to you if only so your children would have a place to visit in order to mourn him. I believe that Bernardus’s just soul will easily find its way to the Kingdom of Heaven._

 

Hrodwunn glances at Houdin and makes a decision before handing him the scroll. “Do not read it aloud, but you are old enough to see the words for yourself, not merely hear them from me.”

Houdin gives her a puzzled nod and reads the letter. His lip trembles as he takes in the news, but when his tears fall, they are silent. Only then does Hrodwunn inform Adelheidis and Helena of Bernardus’s death. She does what she can to comfort them, but her children seem more bewildered than sad. Hrodwunn finds herself thinking that if it were Adalberht who suddenly perished, they would be inconsolable.

They do not have a body to entomb, but Hrodwunn arranges for Bernardus to have a proper Christian funeral. Houdin gives her suspicious glances throughout, as if he cannot quite believe she would respect his father’s faith. She does not roll her eyes during the bishop’s sermon, but it takes more effort than usual to control her expression. It is now a certainty that Hrodwunn will have to find her son a magical bride who is also Christian, as he might simply cease to function if confronted with any other option.

After the Emperor’s unfortunate defeat in the south, the Slavic clans and kingdoms decide the time is ripe to take advantage of Otto II’s absence from East Francia. It is not rumor that now comes from the east, but news. Churches established during Otto I’s reign have been plundered and destroyed.

The Empire cannot afford a war with the Slavic kingdoms in the east while also fighting the Fatimid Caliphate and an angered Constantinople. Bavaria cannot afford for its overlord to die when there is about to be a war on their very doorstep, but he does exactly that.

Duke Otto, nephew of the Emperor, dies on the first day of November as the gentle flakes of a new winter’s snow begin to drift down. Their overlord is dead in the city of Lucca, to the south of the Alps…just like his own father. Otto and Liudolf were both twenty-eight years of age.

 _Is Otto’s family cursed_? Hrodwunn finds herself wondering. She hopes it is not true, but so far, only King Henry the Fowler and Otto I have died at the battle-weary old age of sixty…in the same castle, a residence Otto I had not lived in since childhood. He’d merely decided it was time to visit his father’s home.

Perhaps she should put further consideration into the idea of a curse.

They are granted a new duke in Henry III after an Imperial Diet is held in Verona during Pentecoste. His titles have been restored, making him their new overlord for Bavaria. Hrodwunn can only hope that Henry III learned something from his long exile—and perhaps he has. His defence of their border is fierce and well-directed, if ultimately not enough to save the March. The Slavic men of the east fight with the nearly unstoppable anger of the long oppressed.

Henry III does perform well enough to save Bavaria. The Empire’s army retreats to the western bank of the Elbe River, but that they hold against all comers.

Worse is what comes after the river’s western shore is secure. Five magicians deliberately used innocents of the kingdom to create living _Psychí Angeío_ , what the Old Saxon and English languages call a Horcrux. Two are captured Slavs, but three are magicians of Bavaria…and one is of Hrabanklawa, a woman Hrodwunn might have sworn on her own breath only a year previous would never perform such magic.

Horcruxes are considered such a vile act that even the non-magical have very specific laws against them. Each magician is executed after the Horcruxes tying them to life are removed from their living victims.

Unlike the others, Deidra of Hrabanklawa is Hrodwunn’s responsibility. It’s the first time she deliberately kills another when it is not a matter of defence with wand or bow. Hrodwunn would rather not repeat the experience.

Three of those magically abused, all younger, recover and return to their homes. Two older women, Swanahilda and Odilla, are not as bright-eyed after the Horcrux removals. Hrodwunn grants them a place in her home for their recovery. She has read in several differing tomes that there can be side effects that disquiet the mind. Perhaps she can help them to recover, or at least provide them with comfortable surroundings if they cannot.

Hrodwunn does not expect them to die. Odilla is first, succumbing that first week during the midnight rousing of quiet conversation that occurs within the keep. She simply stands up from the table and falls, dead before striking the floor.

Swanahilda is kept under close watch after that. She remains hale for several months, but is always listless and far too biddable for a Bavarian woman of her age. Then she awakens ill one morning in Iulius, a simple fever that should be no difficulty for any healer to combat. Instead, Swanahilda grows weaker with every passing day. Hrodwunn watches in impotent fury as mundane medicine and strong magic both fail to improve Swanahilda’s health. Then she passes on the seventh day of sickness, dying without ever regaining the spark of true awareness in her eyes.

Hrodwunn gives Swanahilda a kind funeral, as she has no family to claim her. Then she sits in her office and broods, disturbed by both deaths. She does not know why they died; she has nothing to reference, no other magicians to ask. She has no idea if they could be saved, or if their fate was written the moment they were magically abused.

As much as she despises not knowing things, it is Swanahilda’s death that drives home a disturbing truth. Hrodwunn never realized it, but Bavaria’s magicians have drastically decreased in number since her childhood. There are several magical duchies in Bavaria still, but magicians themselves were not limited to the nobility. With Deidra’s execution, there are no magicians remaining in Hrabanklawa aside from Hrodwunn, Adelheidis, and Helena.

On the Summer Solstice, Duke Henry calls for a gathering of all Bavarian nobles, magical or otherwise. “Our young Heir is to be crowned King of Germany in Aachen Cathedral.”

Hrodwunn refuses to react in shock, though it is a surprise. “He shall be co-ruler with his father, then?”

“I was not present in Verona, but I am given to understand that yes, the Emperor wishes to secure his co-regent’s throne while they both still live,” Henry replies. “It is a tradition that safeguarded the Empire against disruption when His Majesty Otto I died, and there is no reason to see it discarded.”

“When?” Duke Gerfrid of their westernmost magical duchy asks.

“Her Imperial Majesty and the His Highness Otto III are already traveling north to Aachen. I do not know when they will arrive,” Henry says, and but for a few matters of government, that is the formal end of the meeting.

Henry III, in gratitude for Hrodwunn’s assistance in defending Bavaria, ensures that a list of magical noble daughters of suitable age and religion finds its way into Hrodwunn’s hands. Henry includes notations on those Houses where the marriage alliance might best benefit them both, but Hrodwunn doesn’t mind. She knows all of the magical Houses within Bavaria, but not the whole of East Francia. What he does not say is just as useful as what is said, and prompts Hrodwunn to begin corresponding with Duke Harald of House Schwert aus Amboß in the Duchy of Swabia. Bertram enjoys flying the correspondence back and forth as long as there is some choice bit of food to steal upon his return.

Duke Harald is amendable to the idea of visiting the duchy to see if Houdin is a suitable husband for his daughter. Hrodwunn is pleased, as she thinks she may have found a jewel hidden in plain sight. Harald has several male Heirs squabbling over his small magical duchy, but his wife bore only one girl. Boys are taught to read, write, and do basic sums, continuing the educational traditions of Charlemagne, but afterwards they often learn of war and little else. A lone female noble would learn all entailed in running a noble keep, and thus be well-educated compared to her brothers. If Houdin is not impressed with Harald’s daughter, Hrodwunn is willing to seek candidates for marriage from the whole of the Empire, Constantinople, European-crowned Iberia—even Norway and the kingdoms of the northern isles.

Arranging the visit is a pleasant distraction from the fact that the Church is once again in need of new leadership. The news of Pope Benedict VII’s death arrived late, months after his passing in July. Theophanu and Otto III have been resettled in Aachen since mid-September. It’s possible that Otto II has already appointed a new Pope over the Church, but Benedict’s death still delays the Emperor’s travel north, which may delay Otto III’s scheduled coronation.

The retinue from House Schwert aus Amboß arrives on the thirteenth of November to clear skies and unseasonably warm weather, which Hrodwunn chooses to see as a good omen. The young woman who emerges from the carriage after her grey-haired and bearded father is blonde-haired, brown-eyed, and very pale. Hrodwunn does not suspect ill health, but evidence of her line marrying with those of Denmark. She is fifteen years old as of September, one year older than Houdin.

Her name is Hrodohaidis, with a baptismal name of Agathe. She is commonly referred to in Court as Rose Agatha, and Houdin does Hrodwunn the good favor of completely falling in love at first sight. Hrodwunn breathes out a sigh of relief that Houdin is so warm and accepting, and that Hrodohaidis looks to be thoroughly charmed by her son’s babbling.

 _What is it about a proper courtship that so loosens the tongue_? Hrodwunn has thought on that often over the years, but she has never experienced that feeling for herself in order to have any understanding at all.

Hrodwunn secures the terms of her son’s betrothal to Hrodohaidis that same week. Harald tries to set stiff terms, but if he came here thinking Hrodwunn weak and witless, then he is a fool. His daughter deserves better than to have a fool for a father.

 Hrodwunn counters that Hrodohaidis will be Duchess of Hrabanklawa upon Houdin’s inheritance of the family duchy. Harald is from a poor House, one that is lower ranked in the magical hierarchy. Thus, he is here to convince _Hrodwunn_ that Hrodohaidis is Houdin’s best option for marriage in the whole of the Roman Empire.

Harald signs a contract that is far more to Hrodwunn’s preferences and leaves her office in a snit. After he slams the door with his departure, Adelheidis tumbles out of her hiding place in the cupboard and lies giggling on the floor. “That was not very nice, Mother.”

“Nonsense. That was perfectly reasonable. His idiocy is not my doing, nor my difficulty.”

Houdin wanders around with his head in the clouds even after Hrodohaidis’s departure. Were her son magical, she might be saying such literally. This marriage will not be a hardship for him at all. The date is set for Hrodwunn’s birthday of next October; her son will be fifteen when he weds. They are both still young, but there is no need for Hrodohaidis to risk her health by bearing children right away, not when Adelheidis and Helena are healthy and strong.

When Adalberht bursts into the family’s private chamber the second week of December, Hrodwunn knows that whatever is wrong must be far more serious than Bernardus’s death. She stands so quickly that the cat falling from her lap tears a rent in her gown. “What is it?”

Adalberht is panting for breath, a sign he must have raced up to their height in the keep from the courtyard. “Word has just arrived. Our Emperor is dead.”

“What? No!” Adelheidis gasps, and bursts into shocked tears. Helena ponders her sister before the import of the news strikes her. Then she joins her sister in weeping.

“He cannot be,” Houdin whispers. “How— _how_ , Adalberht?”

Hrodwunn is glad her son voiced the question, as she is too busy staring at their Steward in blank shock. Otto is twenty-eight years old. He was fighting no battles save those related to his own Court while negotiating for swift completion of new policies before requesting that one of the Court magicians bring him to Aachen. The only difficulty Theophanu foresaw was completing preparation for all of the coronation and holiday festivities.

“No one knows what felled him,” Adalberht says. The words are chilling. “He died on seventh December, three evenings ago. Only the magical duchies and the highest of noble families have been granted knowledge of his fate.”

“He must have been assassinated!” Houdin exclaims in anger.

Adalberht does not discount the possibility. “That is the immediate suspicion of many, Lord Houdin, but no one yet knows what felled the Emperor. The only certainty passed along by messengers is that he was not lost in battle.”

Hrodwunn leaves Adalberht in charge of the duchy. After servants pack up belongings for the four of them, Hrodwunn uses magical Fahrend to take herself, Helena, Adelheidis, and Houdin to Aachen. Theophanu is gracious in her greetings to Hrodwunn’s family in Court, though a veil hides her face and her hair.

Only when they are in the privacy of the family’s royal chambers does the Empress Consort cry on Hrodwunn’s shoulder. Hrodwunn comforts her as best she can, suspecting that this is Theophanu’s first opportunity for grief since the news of her husband’s death arrived from Rome.

Theophanu and Hrodwunn have both lost their husbands before the age of thirty. They both have only a single male child who must stand as Heir to their respective responsibilities. Even their children have similarities: Princess Adelheid is ten to Houdin’s fourteen; Adelheidis and Princess Sophia are both eight; Helena, Princess Matilde, and Prince Otto, are five, four, and three years of age. Matilde has grown much since they last saw her, and Otto is a stranger, but still the children take each other by the hand and lean on the shoulders of those next to them.

They attend Court not for holiday festivities, but for a funeral of state, one that involves no burial. Otto II is entombed within the walls of Saint Peter’s Basilica in Rome. This observance is for those of East Francia, the long wake that will spread word of Emperor Otto’s fate to all corners of the Empire.

Through it all, Theophanu bears her grief like an ancient Greek statue. Hrodwunn wonders if her friend will give in to heartbreak and follow her husband into shadow, as Hrodwunn’s father did by following her mother.

“What is going to happen?” Houdin asks as he grips Hrodohaidis’s hand. His young betrothed escapes her father and joins them in the royal chambers at every opportunity. Hrodwunn is pondering the necessity of convincing Duke Harald that his daughter should come to live in Hrabanklawa. There is space enough for Hrodohaidis to maintain her own chambers, with her own servants acting as proper chaperones, until the marriage takes place.

“The Heir is too young to have any sort of power within the Empire.” Hrodwunn sits down in a chair and finds herself sliding her thumb along the smooth spiral path of her wand. “There is no doubt that he will be crowned King of the Franks and named Emperor of the Romans, but…”

“But the other kingdoms of the Empire will not be satisfied with a child-emperor.” Hrodohaidis’s words surprise Hrodwunn, as Hrodwunn did not think Hrodohaidis to have any particular political acumen. For once, it is nice to be proven wrong.

Hrodwunn shakes her head. “No. I do not think they will be.” Most of the Empire’s acquisitions are still too new. The Kingdom of Italy might remain in support of East Francia, as it is watched over by the Dowager Empress Adelheid, but others have few reasons to maintain their fealty to the new emperor.

Hrodwunn remains in the royal palace, both her right as Duchess over Hrabanklawa and at Theophanu’s red-eyed invitation. No one is really celebrating Christ’s birth this year but for token acknowledgement and prayers the day of the twenty-fifth. Instead, they all stand witness as a small child is crowned King of the Franks before being declared Emperor of the Romans.

Otto III is not acknowledged by the new Pope as Emperor. As John Paul XIV was granted his title by the late Emperor, an immediate rift to develop between the Imperial family and the State of the Church. That causes an immediate and fell wind to blow across Europe, one that may splinter the Empire before the turn of the year.

“Roman Fever felled my husband,” Theophanu says to Hrodwunn a week after Christmas Day. “While he was in Rome.”

“I am so very sorry, Theophanu.” It seems an odd time of year to suffer from Roman Fever, which is far more common during the warm months, but not impossible. It is just…unfortunate. Otto was bred and educated for this life, and he ruled well for the full decade he held the throne on his own.

“It took some careful manipulation to ensure that the magical healers would be able to see Otto’s body. Adelheid didn’t want them to tend to him,” Theophanu explains in a bitter voice. “She has lost her taste for magic of any sort. I believe she lingered too long in Burgundy, where there is an increasing fear of magicians.”

“I did notice that there seem to be fewer magicians in Bavaria. Is this…widespread?” Hrodwunn asks, hoping it isn’t. Magic has increasingly made the Church nervous. She thought that its priests and bishops would have no issue with those who also follow their Christ. Perhaps she assumed incorrectly.

“I think it will be soon enough. My husband’s father gave the Papal States more power than any single religion should hold, even if it is a religion to which I pledge my faith.” Theophanu glances at her. “I thought you would like to know. The moment he received word of Otto’s death, Bishop Folcmar released Henry II of Bavaria from prison.”

Hrodwunn grimaces. “And thus the Bishop of Utrecht reveals his true political allegiance.”

Theophanu nods in sympathy. “Given that Hrabanklawa is beneath Bavaria, I thought it best that you knew.”

“Thank you,” Hrodwunn replies. There is little chance that Henry II will be able to reclaim Bavaria from Duke Henry III at the moment, but necessary political maneuvering often dictates decisions that might otherwise be viewed as abhorrent. Even Henry III reclaimed a dukedom after long exile. With Henry II imprisoned for trying to take the Imperial throne twice over. Hrodwunn has no doubt as to what he will attempt to do with his freedom. “Young Otto will be Henry’s first concern.”

“Concern.” Theophanu has developed harsh lines at the corners of her eyes in the passing days. When she frowns, they become more pronounced. “They will all attempt to turn my youngest child into a political tool. Better he had been born a girl. At least then I would be considered capable of ruling the Empire until my eldest daughter married someone suitable.”

“You should rule, regardless,” Hrodwunn says, but Theophanu lets out a bitter snort. They both know and understand what it is like to be a woman in the Roman Empire. Theophanu will be Regent, but the Church will hold true sway until Otto III gains his majority.

When Hrodwunn’s family leaves Aachen after the turn of the year, Hrodohaidis accompanies them. Hrodwunn believes Duke Harald’s fears for his daughter’s safety in the midst of brewing political turmoil is what swayed him into allowing Hrodohaidis to spend the remainder of her betrothal in Hrabanklawa—a duchy far from the heart of the Empire.

 

_(Otto II)_


	4. Exile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There has been no school for magic since Emperor Romulus was overthrown in the year 476.”  
> “Then it’s been far too long since we had one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @rosestonewrites pushed The Fundraisening for this one. <3

Helena is the one who first hears the rumor, borne on the lips of small children from a trading caravan traveling south. They often cross the river to trade with the Slavs as well as Bavarians, but no one has concern unless they attempt to _assist_ the kingdom’s enemies. Before the Emperor’s death, Hrodwunn paid the rumor little heed. After their return to Hrabanklawa, Helena brings it to her once again, carried by a new caravan of differing origin. Hrodwunn finds her attention caught as if she were an insect snared by a talented spider.

“A school for magic in the north,” Hrodwunn repeats, trying not to feel excited by the very idea. Two rumors do not a truth make…and yet this rumor is quite similar to the first.

“That is what Solveig said.” Helena climbs up onto the bench next to her mother, frowning at the precise line of stitching Hrodwunn is adding to the tapestry. Other magicians would use magic, but Hrodwunn has always felt soothed by the act of applying needle and thread to cloth, of seeing her tiny work reveal itself as the evening progresses. “Do you think it’s true, Mother?”

Hrodwunn considers Helena’s question while continuing to create the proper letters in Greek. She hopes to complete it before Theophanu’s day of birth, which occurs just before the equinox. Her friend deserves some small joy to offset her grief. “I don’t know, but I think it a good idea. There has been no school for magic since Emperor Romulus was overthrown in the year 476.”

Helena’s tiny expression twists in annoyance. “Then it’s been far too long since we had one.”

She agrees with her daughter. Five centuries is time enough for magicians of the West to gather once more.

Hrodwunn thinks on the idea often as the snows begin to recede. She bribes Bertram with scratches around his beak so that he’ll take the completed tapestry to Theophanu. With it is a letter asking if the empress would consider another visit from Hrodwunn’s family. It is time Houdin and Adalberht prepared the duchy for spring by themselves, yet another step in her son’s fledgling apprenticeship. Now that he is contracted to wed, it is one of many lessons not to be neglected.

Bertram returns with Theophanu’s response on the Lencten Equinox. Theophanu extends an invitation for the family (including dear Hrodohaidis) to join her for Paschal Tide in hopes of alleviating the burden of attending Court for the holy days without her husband.

Before Hrodwunn can contemplate her next letter, a smerle falcon lands on the window ledge next to Bertram. The raven gives the other bird an offended look and pecks at the small falcon’s jesses.

“Behave yourself,” Hrodwunn mutters, taking the scroll from the falcon’s leg. “That is a bird of the Court.”

The news is disheartening: Otto III, King of the Romans, has been kidnapped by Henry II. The letter is written by a scribe rather than in Theophanu’s firm Greek; this must have occurred shortly after Theophanu sent Bertram back to Hrabanklawa.

 _Political leverage_ , Hrodwunn thinks bitterly, and is struck by magical foresight in a way that leaves her feeling as if someone has injured her. When she recovers from the sensation of nonexistent physical pain, Hrodwunn sends for her son. She bids Houdin to sit in the family’s private room, spell-locks the door, and begins to speak.

“You may think me a coward for the decision I must make now in regards to myself and your sisters, but it is not cowardice. You may think I am not doing my duty to our home, to our kingdom, or to our Empire. I _have_ done so, else you would not be sitting in front of me,” Hrodwunn says.

Houdin blinks a few times in response to her blunt words. “Of course, Mother. Please speak.”

“Henry II, son of Henry of Bavaria, has taken the young king as his hostage. Henry will attempt to gain the Imperial throne through his younger cousin, and he will not succeed, but holding King Otto gives him the clout to create alliances that would otherwise never be considered.”

“As you’ve theorized before,” Houdin says cautiously.

“He will start with marriages. Marriages are easy to convince others to consider, especially among the nobility, where ideas of what might be gained will outweigh good sense.” Hrodwunn takes a calming breath. “I will not be forced to wed again merely to further the goals of a man who will take what does not belong to him through ill means. With our king as his hostage, Henry will have the power to make me do so. Worse, he will have the means to force your sisters to wed as well. Would you see Adelheidis married at eight? Helena married at five?”

Houdin rears back in alarm. “Of course not, Mother!”

“Then you understand that the three of us _must_ flee before Henry brings his plans to fruition.” Hrodwunn waits for her son to nod. “You and Hrodohaidis are both safe from Henry. You are bound by a marriage contract witnessed by Duke Henry III, and the Duke of Bavaria will not annul an alliance that is already beneficial to Bavaria.”

“But that—” Houdin clenches his jaw. “Mother, Duke Henry has been good to the duchy. He would protect you from the poor manipulations of Henry II, who has no title to support him.”

“The Duke of Bavaria would not dare to risk our king for the sake of myself or your sisters,” Hrodwunn reminds him gently. Houdin flushes and nods. “You will wed in October with no difficulty. Adalberht will see to it that your apprenticeship continues here in safety. Hrabanklawa is secure, dear son. Our family will maintain control over our lands.”

“I understand. Where will you go, Mother?”

“North.” Hrodwunn is sliding her thumb along her wand’s carved spiral again, a nervous habit she cannot ever recall indulging in until after the Emperor’s death. Perhaps it isn’t a nervous habit, but that same strange foresight still at play. “North and over the ocean, but beyond that, I do not know. I will write to you. When I do, Bertram will bring the letters direct from my hand. If you receive a letter from me not delivered by the raven, understand that it is a falsehood. Bertram will know how to find me if you choose to write in response, though it may be some time before I dare tell you where I and your sisters dwell.”

“Of course I will write!” Houdin spits with a young man’s fire. “You are my mother. I will honor you as you have honored me.”

“You are a very good son,” Hrodwunn praises Houdin. He allows her to embrace him in a way he has not often tolerated since the age of twelve.

“You’re certain?” Adalberht asks her as they prepare to depart. This time Hrodwunn packs their belongings, as it will require magic to convey everything they need without the assistance of a wagon. That same foresight is still plaguing her, convincing Hrodwunn that speed is of the essence; they will travel alone on three strong horses.

“We will be safe, Adalberht. If I can defend this duchy with my wand and a bow, I can certainly do the same on the road.” Hrodwunn shrinks the trunk that holds all of her precious books and scrolls. It had to be expanded with a great deal of magical space, but she can’t bear the thought of leaving them behind. Houdin has copies of those he will need or enjoy; the rest are all books for Hrodwunn’s scholarly pursuits. The trunk that holds quills, paper, parchment, and varying inks is a bit smaller. Compared to books and supplies, Hrodwunn’s clothes, money, and jewelry will be the least of what she carries. She would rather not travel with jewelry at all, but there are Courts in other lands, and she will not present herself improperly.

“It is a long journey, and I’ve long been concerned with my Lady’s safety,” Adalberht replies. “Take a young man from the duchy’s guard to ride at your backs.”

“And see Houdin blamed when there is one missing from his post?” Hrodwunn shakes her head. “No, Adalberht. We will be well. I trust you will ensure that the same can be said of Houdin, Hrodohaidis, and Hrabanklawa.”

She can tell Adalberht isn’t pleased, but he bows in submission and respect. “My word upon it, Lady Hrodwunn. Though she is not my goddess, I will place a tribute beneath Baduhenna’s tree for every day you travel until Bertram brings word that you are all safe.”

“Thank you.”

Adelheidis is happy to be traveling, even if she is not pleased by the reasons making it necessity. She would prefer to hex Henry II with her wand if he were to try forcing her to wed, but will have to content herself by being unavailable for his scheming.

Helena is _not_ pleased to be traveling. She complains of the cold, the snow, the damp, the mud, the horses’ stink, and anything else that crosses her mind. Hrodwunn reminds herself that her youngest child is but five years old, and that it is not proper to cast a silencing charm upon her.

Bertram keeps trying to ride atop the heads of their three horses, but only Hrodwunn’s mount will tolerate the raven’s antics. She gave the raven the option of staying at the duchy, the land that bears the name of a raven’s claw, but Bertram was waiting on the saddle of her horse the morning of their departure. Hrodwunn is glad Bertram joined them, choosing to take the raven’s blessing as yet another sign that they are doing as they are meant to.

They overnight in taverns and private houses, where rare golden coin is enough to cause strangers to pledge their silence regarding the presence of Hrodwunn and her daughters. Helena tires of complaining after the first week. Even Alicia wearies of traveling. Hrodwunn realizes she is spoiled by an enclosed wagon and a brazier of hot coals at her feet. She’d forgotten how interminably _long_ it takes to travel from one end of East Francia to the other. Only Bertram remains cheerful. Hrodwunn blames the playful and stubborn nature of all ravens for his continued charm.

They arrive in the port in the afternoon on the seventeenth of Aprilis, after a full month of travel to reach the northernmost western border of the Empire. Hrodwunn greets the Mark of Antwerp with mingled relief and bitterness. Otto II named the Mark as the new boundary of the Empire only three years ago, just after the birth of his son. Now he is dead, and their realm is endangered by the actions of a fool.

After securing their lodgings in the city and instructing Adelheidis to use her wand against anyone else who attempts to enter their room, Hrodwunn seeks out their next means of travel. One cannot cross the ocean on a horse unless one were to trust a Kelpie, and that is a choice for the foolish and desperate. Hrodwunn will never be either.

A Frankish sailor might be tempted to obey the words of usurper Henry II and return Hrodwunn and her daughters to Bavarian land. She seeks out a sailor from another kingdom, an older Norse man with salt-stiffened blond hair, sea-gnarled hands, and a large blade at his side.

Their languages are close kin, so it is not difficult to speak with one another. He is Egil of the North, captain of a knarr with room enough to host Hrodwunn, Helena, Adelheidis, Bertram, and their horses along with all the other goods of his trade. Hrodwunn suspects he was a raider from the north in his youth, but could not give up his love of the sea when the time came to put away a warrior’s blade.

She calls herself Hrodwunn without naming her titles. Egil is intelligent enough to know from her gold that she is nobility but does not speak of it, just as Hrodwunn will politely not observe the fact that his merchant vessel is still properly outfitted for raiding and war. They talk only of making arrangements for the journey, which will begin on the nineteenth of Aprilis at dawn. They will not go to London, as Hrodwunn thought. Instead, they sail for the port of Bristol, which is far to the west and very near to the lands of the Cymru.

“Why such a long way?” Hrodwunn asks. She does not fear the mingled Norse-Gaelic Britons any more than she fears the English, but they will be traveling quite close to the Cymru ports.

Egil motions away another man who may well be his own kin before speaking. “Have you heard nothing of what transpires in the Kingdom of England, Hrodwunn?”

“I admit to being quite distracted by the doings of the Empire,” Hrodwunn returns in a wry tone. “Why?”

“Old King Edgar died.” Hrodwunn nods for him to continue; she’d learned of the English king’s death later that same year. “His eldest son Edward took the throne in the summer of 975, but didn’t survive for long. He was murdered in March of 978. Jealousy. Conspiracy. None really know any truth but this: Edward had not performed any ill act to deserve such a fate,” Egil says. “His younger brother Æthelred II was placed on the throne with the Queen Ælfthryth to act as Regent. He was too sarding _young_ for it, not when the kingdom is but a babe itself. The Kingdom of England has not seen many bright days since that time. He will attain his majority in the next month, and few of us believe that things will improve.”

“They placed a young man on the throne who was not raised to be a king.”

“No, and the whole of the southern isle may pay for it. If I were you, I would not linger in the company of the English,” Egil advises.

“I’d planned to travel north,” Hrodwunn says, realizing in that moment that yes, English soil is not yet north enough. “Perhaps I wish to see how the land of Moravia treats us.”

Egil nods. “They have a good family ruling over that land. They might treat very well with you, Hrodwunn.” He reaches out and clasps her hand gently; it is not quite the grip of a noble man taking the hand of a lady, but it is polite and well-intentioned. “Return tomorrow at dusk. We will load the horses and yourselves. You will need not fear being left behind with the dawn.”

It does not take long for Hrodwunn to discover that there is a terrible, horrible punishment in store for those who travel by sea to reach places they have never been. Hrodwunn spends most of the journey to the northern isle sicking up what feels like all of her insides into a wooden bucket. Adelheidis and the crew’s healer coax Hrodwunn to eat what little her cramping belly will accept before she is renewing her friendship with the bucket.

Never again. She will have laid eyes upon the land of Briton. She is going to magically travel across this vile body of water rather than sail on a ship ever again.

Adelheidis and Helena aren’t at all affected by the up-and-down motion of the ship. They wrap themselves in lines of rigging so they can stand at the ship’s prow and screech their delight at the open sea. Bertram perches on the carved dragon masthead that plows through the waves, occasionally spreading his wings and cawing defiance when the ocean spray attempts to drench them.

“Where are we?” Hrodwunn blearily asks when the ship is hauled onto the shore with ropes pulled by many strong hands. The voyage smoothed out towards the very end, which makes her suspect they found a river’s inlet while she was occupied with being ill. To be truthful, Hrodwunn does not much care where they are. She wants a bed, the better to sleep off terrible ocean travel. A bath would also be a kindness, but she no longer cares whether it precedes the bed or follows it.

“This is the Eorldom of Somerset in the Kingdom of England, Duchess,” their Norse sailor tells her. She is exhausted enough that she cannot remember his name, though she knew it well when they first met. “This is the shore of the Bristol Avon in the seaport proper. I have sent word to the Magical Eorl over Somerset that a lady magician seeks temporary refuge. I hope I have not caused offence by doing so.”

Hrodwunn shakes her head. “Not at all. You have done me a kindness, and I thank you for it.”

She gives him extra coin for the safe journey once their horses are brought forth, thanking him yet again. The Norsemen see Hrodwunn, Helena, and Adelheidis safely away from the riverbank with their horses and belongings before returning their attention to unloading the rest of the goods meant for Bristol.

It isn’t long before they’re approached by a young man leading a white horse. He’s dressed in leathers and a cloak befitting a man heading into battle. His face is surprisingly beardless; his dark red hair is tied back, revealing pale skin and eyes that are like chips of ice reflecting a winter sky.

Hrodwunn doesn’t realize that he is magical until he is in touching distance. She doesn’t recognize that he is nobility until he takes her hand just as a man would to demonstrate his respect to another noble lady. “Friend Egil tells me that a lady of Bavaria in the Western Roman Empire is in need of English hospitality,” he says in the West Saxon English, the southern kingdom’s dominant tongue.

It’s good to be reminded of the Norse sailor’s name. One never knows when that may again be necessary information. “You were told correctly, Lord…”

“Lord Godric of Grypusdor, Magical Eorl over Somerset. My kingdom does not much believe in dukes, though we’ve the same rank but for the title.” When Lord Godric smiles, he looks much younger than she initially thought, but there is a hard battle-shine in his eyes. He has seen war, probably more than once.

Hrodwunn resigns herself to the idea that she might be seeing the hospitality of another like Bernardus. As long as he grants them hospitality in a proper manner, she will endure.

“And your name, Lady of Bavaria?” he asks.

“I am Lady Hrodwunn, Duchess of Hrabanklawa under the Duchy of Bavaria in the Kingdom of East Francia.”

“Lady Hrodwunna,” Godric repeats. It isn’t quite right, but it’s more of an effort than most ever bother to attempt. Perhaps this one is not one like Bernardus, after all. “Egil did not mention that you are nobility. Regardless, it is a pleasure to greet you, especially as your arrival has timed itself to coincide with Beltane.”

“It’s the first day of Maius?” Hrodwunn asks in blank shock. She lost eleven days to that cursed voyage…and it is no wonder she wasn’t aware. The weather on this island insists upon being chill and bleak.

“It is indeed,” Godric confirms, and turns his attention to Hrodwunn’s daughters. “And who might be these two beautiful girls?”

“I’m Adelheidis,” Hrodwunn’s eldest daughter speaks up before she can be introduced by Hrodwunn. “This is Helena.”

Godric smiles, bright and pleased. “Ah, see—your sister’s name, my tongue can comprehend, but your own gracious name may be a bit beyond my skill, young one.”

Adelheidis makes a face. “In Court, I am Alicia. I suppose that will have to do.”

“On this isle, it may have to, yes,” Godric agrees. “Come. I have a family holding beyond the walls of Bristol, so you need not face two days’ further travel to Griffon’s Door.”

Hrodwunn is beyond relieved to discover that the eorl is sincere in his claim. It seems to be a ride of just a few minutes before the horses are trotting towards a small stone building composed of heavy grey stone. The keep is in a pleasant spot in the hills beyond Bristol’s guarding walls, away from the noise and bustle of the seaport. Even its courtyard is paved in flat slabs of that same grey stone.

Hrodwunn dismounts from her horse and wavers on her feet, keeping her hand tangled in the horse’s mane until the moment passes. Adelheidis slithers off her horse with a joyful bounce, though Lord Godric is swift to simply lift Helena from her saddle and place her on the courtyard next to her sister. “You’ve no pack animal for your belongings?” he asks Adelheidis politely.

Adelheidis grins at him, revealing the gap in her lower teeth from a freshly lost tooth. “Everything is in the belt pouches, Lord Godric!”

“Please. You are just as noble as I am. My name is Godric, young Lady Adelheidis.” Lord Godric seems amused when Adelheidis looks disgruntled at being referred to that way. “Please, I insist that all of you consider me in that manner. We are of equal rank, after all. There is no need to stand on Courtly ceremony, especially as there is no Court near to this place.”

They horses are passed on to young stable hands. Then Hrodwunn and her daughters are escorted to the upper storey of the keep by servants who speak nothing but West Saxon English. Hrodwunn is so very glad she learned the language, and then tutored her children in the same. Oh, how Houdin had complained! Adelheidis and Helena have lost touch with the natural flow of the language since their tutor’s departure, but they can all communicate with those around them—even if there are moments of confusion over certain words. Hrodwunn wonders if the tutor she hired lied about his credentials, or if the Saxon English in Somerset somehow differs from that of London.

They are to share a room, but as the sitting room is large enough for a desk to write upon and the sleeping chamber capable of supporting three beds, none of them mind. There is even a private bathing chamber, though the servants escort the girls off to a different bathing chamber so they can be cleansed while feeling safe in each other’s company. Hrodwunn removes her wand, wincing at the smell of salt that coats even its pear wood, and then unshrinks all of their belongings so that they might be properly tended to.

Most of their clothes are taken to the keep’s lavandarias to be cleansed of a months’ road travel and eleven days of ocean salt. The servants leave them each a single chemise, gown, and stockings after Hrodwunn assures Godric’s stubborn servants that she does indeed know how to properly cleanse them with magic, and she will bring no shame or dirt to the eorl’s table at evening meal. Finally, her patience brings her the glory of her own hot bath.

After she has to give up on the bath when the water is too dirty to linger in any longer, Hrodwunn allows a servant to rinse the slickness of soap and oils from her hair and skin with fresh warm water. The young woman wraps Hrodwunn in a thick robe before smiling and departing.

Hrodwunn discovers that the servant left a small jar of fresh beeswax, a damp cloth, and a dry cloth of silk behind. She smiles in gratitude, wipes the crust of salt from her wand, and then uses the silk to apply a fresh coating of beeswax until it perfumes the air and removes the last vestiges of sea voyage stench from her nose. Then Hrodwunn cleans their evening clothes with magic in very thorough fashion.

It is a pleasure to slip into silk that is once again soft and clean against her skin. The heavier brocade gown is a comforting weight over her shoulders. She pulls her stockings up so she can tie the sheath for her knife into place just below her knee, the better to only need slippers for the evening instead of heavier boots.

When she returns to the small sitting room of their guest chambers, Helena and Adelheidis are seated on the floor, wrapped in robes while playing with Bertram. The raven has found colored glass beads, likely liberated from some unsuspecting lady of the keep, and is flinging them into the air for the girls to catch. Hrodwunn tells Bertram to behave himself and then orders her daughters to go dress for evening meal. When they’re done, Helena is refusing to do anything with her hair, especially if it involves a brush; Adelheidis is using her wand to swirl her golden locks into a style befitting a woman looking to ensnare a spouse. Hrodwunn considers telling Adelheidis not to do so, but it is obvious to anyone with eyes that the child is far too young for marriage. As the Lord Godric stated—they are far from any Court.

The upstairs chambers are not alone in their simplicity. Godric’s entire keep is built to more humble standards than Hrodwunn has ever experienced in a noble house. The staff are gracious and capable, yes, but the table in the keep’s Receiving Hall is laid with unadorned pewter vessels and trenchers. The spoons for serving might be made of silver, but they bear no decoration at all. Aside from a blazing hearth, there is only a tapestry on the wall bearing the family’s coat of arms: a rearing griffon set before a hill upon which a large oak tree grows.

That is where Hrodwunn is introduced to Godric’s wife, the Countess Sedemai of Grypusdor. She seems very well matched to her husband in appearance, though Sedemai’s hair is like burning flame instead of darker embers. She has a great deal of freckles marking her skin, and her sky blue eyes shine with endless cheer.

Hrodwunn likes Sedemai immediately. She isn’t certain why, though it is not caused by the reveal of Sedemai’s magic when she draws a curved wand and begins assisting the servants in lighting the candles atop the iron candelabras hanging from the stone ceiling. This is something Hrodwunn does not know how to name, and she dislikes that ignorance.

“You’ve three children?” Sedemai asks before they settle at the table, staring at Hrodwunn in delight. “I would never have thought, especially as you say the eldest remains in your home! How old are you, Lady Hrodwunna?”

“I—” Hrodwunn gathers herself. It isn’t a common question to be asked, but perhaps manners and expectations differ on this isle. “I am thirty years old as of the past October, Lady Sedemai.”

“Oh, no, please. I am merely Sedemai when I stand with another such as yourself,” Sedemai insists, just as her husband did earlier in the day. “What is your secret? Are you a goddess reincarnated?”

“What do you mean?” Hrodwunn asks, puzzled by the comparison.

“What my wife means is that you have the beauty of one who is but eighteen and has never seen the trials of childbirth and child-rearing,” Godric explains, smiling. “Sedemai, can I—”

“No, husband,” Sedemai interrupts at once, granting her husband a wide grin with the denial. “No noble entanglements. Especially not Imperial ones.”

“Very well, dearest.” Godric places his hand over his breast. “I shall, as always, reserve my heart for you.”

“Awwwwww,” Adelheidis croons as she skips up to them. Helena sees Sedemai’s playful smile and makes a sour face. Five-year-olds are not often in the mood to witness romance among their elders.

The meal itself is simple fare that Hrodwunn’s stomach can almost—almost—tolerate. Hrodwunn eyes the good chicken broth with suspicion. “You feast as if you are treating an illness,” Hrodwunn asks while Sedemai is being charmed by Adelheidis and Helena. The Countess of Griffon’s Door has the look of a woman who longs for children of her own.

“Given your appearance when we first met?” Godric smiles. “I wisely assumed that boats did not agree with you, and your young ones carried further tales of its unpleasantness. I would rather not place you before a meal that would create further sickness.”

Hrodwunn bites her lip, momentarily confounded by his gesture. “I—that is most courteous of you. You’re right. I did not handle the journey very well, and wish to never travel by boat ever again.”

Godric laughs. “But now you’ve seen the isle, and can avoid the boat entirely.”

She smiles, charmed by his humor. “Yes. That is exactly what I plan.”

Hrodwunn excuses herself and her children from the table when she notices that Helena is trying to sleep in her trencher. Godric and Sedemai send them off with honest good wishes for a restful night.

She oversees the children readying for bed and then tucks them into place, a custom neither has outgrown. She suspects that time is coming soon for Adelheidis, who wishes for a candle to remain lit so that she can read. Hrodwunn thinks on it and agrees, doubting that Adelheidis will be awake too long.

Hrodwunn gives her own waiting bed a longing look, but retreats to the sitting room and its writing desk. There she composes a simple letter for Houdin. She tells him only that they have crossed the sea in safety and are resting in the home of a trustworthy magician, makes certain her seal is properly stamped into the wax, and then tucks the curled letter into the small leather tube sized for her raven.

Bertram remains still while she affixes it properly to his leg. Then he clacks his beak and grooms a few strands of Hrodwunn’s hair before taking flight. She watches him until the night sky causes him to vanish, but she isn’t concerned. Even if Hrodwunn leaves the keep tomorrow, Bertram knows how to find her.

When she goes back to the sleeping chamber, Adelheidis has fallen asleep with the book resting over her face. Hrodwunn smiles and sets it aside, taking the lit candle to her own bedside to finish preparing for sleep.

It isn’t until she is resting beneath a soft, heavy quilt upon a pleasantly firm mattress that Hrodwunn realizes Godric was asking permission of his wife to—to _woo_ her! Of all the ridiculous, nonsensical, silly—

Hrodwunn turns her face into the pillow so she can cry without waking Adelheidis or Helena. No one has ever asked such of her. Bernardus assumed Hrodwunn’s body was his by rights as her husband, but no one else ever voiced such interest. Not before her betrothal and marriage, and certainly not since Bernardus’s death. None have approached her even for the chance of political gain, something that once filled her with relief.

Now she is angry, and frustrated because of that anger. If she is as comely as the Lord and Lady of Magical Somerset claim, then why has she been left so alone all this time?

By her goddess, _is_ she lonely? Hrodwunn never thought so before, but she never felt this lack until it was pointed out by others. To think that she had to flee her own kingdom to find someone who would voice pleasure with her appearance!

It does not once occur to her to pursue Godric’s interest, not after his wife so firmly spoke against it. Sedemai is correct. An English eorl cannot afford an involvement with a duchess from the Empire, especially one who is hiding from the political machinations of an idiot.

 

_(Rowena)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, Hrodwunn's still Ace-spectrum. But it's always such a journey to figure that out, isn't it?


	5. Rumor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “My daughter once heard a rumor. Perhaps I am seeking to find if there is any truth to it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet another chapter provided due to THE FUNDRAISENING. (I am tired enough to keep misreading that word.)

Hrodwunn wakes to the sound of her daughters chattering like birds and considers pulling her pillow over her head. She is not ready to be awake, but there is no doubt that it is daylight. She is not even ready to bestir herself from this bed, but if she doesn’t, Helena will crawl atop her and prod her with sharp elbows and knees until Hrodwunn gives in to the inevitable.

Both of her children sit at the breakfast table just long enough to inhale crusts of bread and bits of egg before they race off with the other children of the keep. “No, none are mine,” Godric says when he notices Hrodwunn’s careful glance. He is quick to observe, very much aware of what is occurring around him. She will need to bear that in mind.

“Your wife seems to desire children.”

“That we do,” Godric admits, “but though we have been married since I was seventeen, we’ve no children so far. The healers assure us that we will, one day, but my wife begins to feel the lack.”

“If the healers are not concerned, then I’m certain that will not be a lack for long,” Hrodwunn says in confidence, trying to ignore her own parents’ failure to conceive again.

Godric nods and changes the subject. “What is it that brings you to England?” he asks while Hrodwunn attempts to find favor with anything set out for breakfast aside from the bread.

“A boat.” Hrodwunn smiles to place the proper humor in her dry words.

Godric laughs. “Aside from the boat, then.”

“I’m genuinely not certain I’m here for England at all, but it is a hospitable place to visit.” Hrodwunn is rewarded again by Godric’s bright smile as he takes in the full meaning of her words. He is quite intelligent; those who live on his lands are fortunate to have him as their magical overlord. “I doubt the news has reached these shores yet, but the man who was once the Duke of Bavaria by inheritance has kidnapped the Frankish king, unrecognized but impending Emperor of the Western Roman Empire.”

“No, I’d not heard such a thing, but it does not surprise me.” Godric frowns. “Your daughters are not wed. You believe he would use the threat of ending a small child’s life to force political alliances far too soon, and for the wrong reasons entirely.”

“With them and with me,” Hrodwunn says. “I am widowed as of last year.”

“My sorrow for you, then,” Godric replies.

Hrodwunn shakes her head. “Do not spare it for me when I have no sorrow for the one lost. The marriage did not bring love to either of us, and he was a fool.”

“Very well.” Godric seems curious, but does not ask further of her dead husband. “Why travel so far north, then? It might have been easier to seek refuge in Constantinople, or among the Western Franks.”

“My daughter once heard a rumor,” Hrodwunn says. “Perhaps I am seeking to find if there is any truth to it.”

Godric’s smile vanishes. “You speak of the rumor of a school.”

Hrodwunn is surprised by his sudden somberness. “Yes. A school for magic. Given the five hundred years that have passed since the loss of the last magical school, I’d hoped there to be substance to this rumor. Even my youngest has voiced the opinion that it has certainly taken long enough for someone to decide we should have such a school again in the West.”

“That tiny one of yours spoke thus?” Godric looks amused. “She is as wise as her mother, then. I’ve heard those rumors as well, Lady Hrodwunna, but I don’t yet know how much faith I place in them.”

“Why?”

Godric pauses for thought before speaking again. “They seem too conveniently timed. I first heard tell of it after your late Emperor’s unexpected death. It was as if someone was waiting to take advantage of the political turmoil that may attempt to consume your Empire.”

Hrodwunn considers that to be a justifiable suspicion. “Then this should set your mind at ease. My daughter first heard this rumor spoken of while Emperor Otto II was alive and well.”

Godric leans back in his chair. “It does, actually, especially given the name attached to the rumor I myself have heard.”

“A name?” Hrodwunn leans forward, her unhappy belly and displeased body forgotten in lieu of excitement. “What name is that, Lord Godric?”

“Myrddin Wyllt. He’s not been seen since my grandmother’s time. I’d given him up for dead, but if these rumors are not rumors at all…then yes, I could see him having an interest in creating a school on Brittonic soil.”

“I’ve never heard of Myrddin Wyllt.” Admitting this truth grants Hrodwunn one of the most informative mornings she’s ever had in regards to northern magical history. Godric is pleased to tell her everything of Myrddin Wyllt that has ever been known to tell, from his birth in 399 (dear _goddess_ ) to Myrddin’s final battle with his favored patron king in 532. Godric cites notable examples of the ancient magician’s crankiness, his odd habits, and his strange ways with magic. The legends surrounding Myrddin’s doings stretch from the very southern tip of English Cornwall to the northernmost reaches of the Moravian Highlands.

By the time Godric is done speaking, Sedemai has put in an appearance, broken her fast, and subjected Godric’s recital to a fond look of patient tolerance. “Are you going to seek out the source of these rumors?” Hrodwunn asks Godric after Sedemai has been informed of the conversation’s origin.

Godric shakes his head in regret. “I cannot, not yet. It is good to know that there is potential truth behind the rumor, but no one in Griffon’s Door or Somerset can yet afford for me to absent myself. Griffon’s Door and the Eorldom are mine by right of inheritance, but when my parents were lost, it suffered five years too long under my uncle’s vile hand. I suspect it will be winter again before I might leave here and trust that my holdings are managed by trusted hands.”

“My advice, Hrodwunna, is to travel north,” Sedemai suggests. “That is all we know of the supposed location of this school—that it lies somewhere in the Highlands, cradled in a valley, sheltered by mountain, resting on land kissed by fresh water.”

“Rowena is fine,” Hrodwunn finds herself saying. Those who speak English do not have any true difficulty with her name, but in the north of this isle she will encounter the languages of the Gaels, the Picts, and the Britons. There may be far too many other battles to wage to overly concern herself with the way others speak her name. That was a childish concern; she has other concerns now.

“Rowena,” Sedemai repeats, smiling. “No matter the preference you voice, it is a good name.”

“What you’ve told me is far more information than I had before.” Hrodwunn smiles, struck by the kindness in their expressions. The last time she found such honesty on the face of a noble man or woman, it was Otto and Theophanu—but only in private, away from the prying eyes of the Empire. “I thank you both.”

“You will not thank me for what I am to do next, however,” Sedemai says, motioning for someone to approach.

Hrodwunn takes in the appearance of the woman who wears fine chins of tiny glass beads strung between twin broaches. She is perhaps middle-aged based on the sparse lines on her face. Her hair is veiled not by the Church’s white cloth, but a red silk and beaded creation of great beauty. A Norsewoman, the first she has ever beheld. “Greetings?” she offers.

“This is Drue,” Sedemai introduces her. “Healer Drue, this is the Lady Hrodwunn, and I do not think she left the sea behind without bringing illness with her.”

Drue gives Hrodwunn a very polite bow before giving her the eye-squint of a healer who expects a difficult patient. “You brought exactly that with you. Given the way your young ones are cavorting about the courtyard with the other children, I doubt they did the same.”

Hrodwunn sighs. “I’d hoped it was simply the number of meals I needed to toss over the side of the ship during the journey.”

“Hmm. That certainly would not have made things better,” Drue says, her expression veering towards sympathy. “Off with me, then, Lady Hrodwunn. You’ll be returning to your chambers with me while I see what is to be done. Your daughters will be safe enough, or the Lord Godric will suffer at my wand when next he needs my services.”

“I suffer at your wand _anyway_ ,” Godric mutters back. Hrodwunn is amused to see that he has taken several large steps back from the healer. Then she is captured firmly by the arm, Drue’s grip iron and unyielding as Hrodwunn is guided firmly back to her chamber. Drue considers her, casts several spells, disappears and returns with a potion and an infusion, ordering Hrodwunn to consume both. The infusion is far more pleasant on her tongue than the potion.

Drue and Sedemai noticed the sickness before it had time to make itself truly known, and then she is plagued by fever, aches, recurrent nausea, and bad dreams of that damnable rocking boat. Hrodwunn spends a full week recovering from the illness she acquired during the sea journey. The seventh day she is truly herself again, if not yet allowed out of bed. Helena and Adelheidis tell Hrodwunn of how they’ve spent their days while she was ill. Their grasp of English is proper again, and they have color on their skin from roaming the nearby hillsides with this keep’s passel of children. For Adelheidis it is a bloom of pink on her nose and cheeks along with a sudden collection of freckles; for Helena the sunlight darkened her skin to a richer brown that reveals the faint olive undertones from their old Roman heritage. They also sat and listened to Godric spin tales of the isle, of its doors and their guardians, of its kings from different kingdoms, and the differing types of people who dwell here.

“He is quite well educated for an English eorl,” Adelheidis says thoughtfully. “Godric says he traveled more in his youth and learned a great deal.”

“He is friends with the King of Moravia!” Helena says, bouncing excitedly on the bound mattress. “Isn’t that where we’re to go, Mother?”

“Moravia is the largest kingdom of the north, yes,” Hrodwunn says, though she hadn’t yet made a final determination. Perhaps now she does not need to.

“We do need to prepare for your journey north, yes,” Sedemai confirms when Hrodwunn is able to join them for midday meal on the ninth of Maius. “Fortunately, we’ve begun some of those preparations already.”

Hrodwunn is torn between gratitude and sputtering indignance that her life has been so managed without her permission. “It is not that I do not appreciate the effort, but—”

“There are already those among my people who wished to return to the land of their birth, and that land is Moray,” Godric interrupts her, but he is kind about it. “They know this land and already meant to make the journey. It’s wiser to find strength together than discard it by remaining apart.”

“What if my presence endangers them?” Hrodwunn asks.

Godric lifts an eyebrow and smiles. “What if your absence endangers _them_?” he counters.

Hrodwunn smiles back. He has bested her with her favorite weapon of logic, and he has done it well. Now she is certain she likes him. “Very well. At least let me be a part of these plans as they are made.”

Sedemai introduces her to a dark-haired Cumbric-born Englishwoman who is said to be four years older than Hrodwunn, but she appears much older. “This is Meraud. She was Master over the kitchen and staff of Griffon’s Door, but now that she has trained her successor, she wishes to return to the land of her birth.”

“And I am Oriel,” the younger woman standing next to Meraud introduces herself, a bold thing to do when one is among nobility. She looks quite a bit like Meraud, but Hrodwunn does not think they are family. “If you are to be tutoring young ones, you’ll want a magical servant about to keep things civilized,” Oriel continues, which reveals her true strengths and proper status as a respected magician. Hrodwunn nods to hide her puzzlement, waiting for their departure before voicing her confusion to Godric and Sedemai.

“Trust me, you will need their assistance,” Godric tells her in a low voice. “All who know of him respect Myrddin Wyllt, but he had no notion left to him of civilized living in my great-grandmother’s time. I doubt he has suffered any improvements since. If you find what you seek, many of those you now travel with will be glad to assist you in whatever way they can.”

“You are _plotting_ ,” Hrodwunn says in admiration.

Sedemai is the one who laughs. “Less Godric than myself, Rowena. I know my husband wants to see this rumor for himself, and I will not live in the chill of the high mountains in the north without proper servants to carry us through winter!”

Hrodwunn smiles, glad that this might only be a temporary farewell. She hasn’t felt such ease in another’s company since her time in Theophanu and Otto’s Court. With Otto dead, Theophanu’s welcome was tainted by loss and misery. These two are bright flames which burn in cheerful counter to that cold grief.

Mauris is the only one not returning to lands of his birth. The sandy-haired young man is from Burgundy, and seeks work in a court of the north. Hrodwunn suspects he is also fleeing something, but Mauris seems to have a good heart and has a gentle hand with animals and children. If he runs from another, it is likely politics driving his steps, just as they do hers.

An unexpected last-minute addition is a woman named Richessa. Hrodwunn has to keep herself from staring outright. Never before in Hrodwunn’s life has she encountered a woman who is not only trained to be a steward, but has been _employed_ as one. Less unusual is that this female steward speaks _franceis_ , English, Norse, and Gaelic. The latter tongues will be quite useful among the Gael-Norse clans who’ve claimed the mountains.

Their retinue, aside from Hrodwunn’s family, is now composed of eighteen people of mixed gender and heritage. They’re sent north with more horses, ponies, and three oxen-drawn wagonloads of supplies for which Godric stubbornly refuses coin. It will be a two-month journey to reach Inverness, but there is such weight in those groaning wagons that Hrodwunn knows there will be enough provisions remaining to stock a larder—if they find their rumored destination.

“Why Inverness?” Hrodwunn asks during their last evening meal. This time it is Godric, Sedemai, and all of those who will be traveling tomorrow who eat at the Receiving Hall’s table.

“I’m surprised you’ve not asked that before now,” Godric says.

Hrodwunn glances about at the others and smiles. “I have been a bit preoccupied learning the names and skills of my new companions.” Oriel seems to find that wildly funny, but like most magicians who do not have to spend their lives dealing with the politics of Court, she is a bit odd.

Godric nods in acceptance. “The Heir to the throne of Moravia is a childhood friend of mine, and I knew his parents when my own were still alive. They are good people who will shelter all of you within their home while you each decide upon your next destination.”

Hrodwunn thanks the Lord and Lady of Magical Somerset again on the morning of their departure, chivying Helena and Adelheidis into mounting their horses. Thank the goddess that her daughters take heart in their Gaul heritage and enjoy riding, no matter the lingering chill of winter in the air. Hrodwunn hopes that Iunius brings some true hint of warmth with it. She grew up in the Black Forest and is used to the cold, but her mountains drew more sunlight than this island and its stubborn grey skies.

Sedemai thrusts a letter into Hrodwunn’s hand, one bearing a scarlet seal impressed with a rampant griffon before an oak tree. “Keep it safely upon your person. We have no reason to mistrust any you travel with, but they are not the only people living upon this isle. When you arrive in Inverness, make certain you pass it only on to the hand of Ruaidrí mac Domnall or his son Findláech.”

Hrodwunn tucks the letter into the magically expanded space of her belt pouch. “How will I know for certain I’ve met either?”

“The Moravian crown is tied to the magic of the land. It makes them unmistakable, even though Findláech will not wear that crown until his father’s death.” Sedemai smiles and kisses both of Hrodwunn’s cheeks. “Safe journey. May God watch over you and your family.”

“I—am not Christian,” Hrodwunn finds herself blurting out, feeling terribly awkward.

Sedemai smiles. “We are all magicians, bound together by the magic in our veins. You do not need to be Christian to feel the warmth of my blessing, and I would never be offended by the kindness of yours.”

“Then may Baduhenna guide your hand when you defend yourself and others,” Hrodwunn replies, hoping the expression on her face has managed to bear likeness to a smile.

“Now that sounds properly Saxon,” Sedemai returns with a broad grin. “I warn you that my husband likes to embrace people.”

“I—” is all that Hrodwunn manages to say before Godric has done exactly that, wishing her a safe journey. She tells him thank you with a great deal more dignity than she may currently still own.

The journey north is surprisingly swift for a group laden with wagons, and they make excellent time those first days. They slow down a bit when their guide, an older Briton named Belin, insists that they avoid the village of Glevceaster and veer towards the tiny hamlet of Celtan Hom to take a day of rest among its quiet folk.

“Mineral springs,” Belin explains in his terse way, his English turned odd on his tongue by a language he claims is the Common Brittonic. Hrodwunn wants to doubt his claim, given that the language has been thought dead for centuries, but he is most certainly not speaking Cumbric. “Good water. A good place to rest. All will need their strength.”

“Then please lead the way,” Hrodwunn replies graciously. She has never experienced a mineral spring before, but it sounds intriguing. She hopes the water is warmer than the rest of what Briton has to offer.

The water is not warm. Thank the goddess for warming charms.

Bertram rejoins them before they leave the mineral springs. Hrodwunn ignores the way her raven combs his beak through her hair, trying in vain to release it from its travel plait so he can tug at individual strands, as she reads the brief letter her son has sent in return. Houdin writes that all is well in Hrabanklawa, and the lencten planting went very well. The duchy has been left in peace since Houdin and Adalberht told a few visiting Bavarian nobles that the Duchess Hrodwunn is traveling in the north with her daughters to treat with other magicians. The idiots immediately decided that Hrodwunn was searching for marriage contracts, but as they went away and did not return, Hrodwunn does not care what conclusions they drew from her absence. Houdin also mentions that Theophanu and the Dowager Empress Adelheid have combined their considerable might, have several important Church leaders on their side, and are pressuring for Henry II to return Otto III to his mother.

 _Please, let Otto be returned safely_ , Hrodwunn thinks. _Then someone toss that complete idiot back into a prison cell and leave him there._ The latter wish is unlikely, but such things would be a kindness for everyone else.

Hunting supplies them as well, with slingshots and English longbows felling meals that keep them in meat. Even Hrodwunn takes her turn with the strong curve of a longbow. Her arms burn afterwards, but her aim is as true as it was during the last battles in Bavaria. Hrodwunn is the first of their small company to fell a deer, and after that good fortune, she is not the last.

“Why do you not use magic, Mother?” Adelheidis asks. “Would it not be easier?”

“Easier, yes,” Hrodwunn agrees. “But much more obvious for those who might be seeking a magician with black hair and blue eyes. Why do you think I tell you to keep your wand hidden?”

“Trust,” Helena says. It’s an incomplete statement, but an accurate one.

“Exactly so. I trust those we travel with because the Lord Godric entrusted them with our safety, and their safety to us. Beyond these folk, I will trust very few,” Hrodwunn says as she returns the unstrung bow to Mauris.

They do not bear the hospitality of London, as it would see them traveling many days too far to the east. When Hrodwunn asked Godric if she should make herself known to King Æthelred, he gained a very odd expression and said it was best not to bother, as she might see Henry II sooner than she would prefer.

She understood him well: Godric is not fond of his king, and suspects him of having no spine when faced with those who hold more power. Hrodwunn will properly greet Æthelred when she no longer has to avoid Henry II. In the meantime, the young king will have to suffer her lack of proper visitation.

Hrodwunn is instead introduced to the whole of Briton’s wild country as they make the journey from the southwest of England to the land that was once the Northumbrian kingdom, and soon onto Alba and Moravia. The isle is often damp and fog-ridden, with the sun preferring to hide behind the clouds. Hrodwunn is grateful when Maius gives way to Iunius; by mid-month, the summer sun finally begins to brighten their travels.

What Hrodwunn most finds fault with is the lack of Roman roads. The Empire maintained the roads quite well, making travel by horse or wagon easier. The wagons slow them down a great deal; the mud created by the damp weather makes their passage even slower still. The isle of Briton seems not to have bothered with the preservation of Roman roads, walls, buildings, aqueducts, or anything useful at all. Hrodwunn is too polite to call them barbarians, but she can’t help but think it. Often.

Alba is a test of her patience when she visits the court of its king, Cináed mac Maíl Coluim. She leaves there after a week, losing four men and women from their retinue who once called this land home. Hrodwunn thinks she would prefer not to return. Though they needed the respite after weeks of travel, the King of Alba strikes her as impetuous, irritable, and overly suspicious of everyone’s doings. That he is called “The Kinslayer” in whispers among his own Court does little to change her opinion. The only faith she has in King Cináed is the certainty that he will never turn her over to agents of the Empire, if only out of a desire to spite the Franks, the Empire, and England as well.

“How does that spite the _English_?” Adelheidis asks in bafflement after they depart.

Hrodwunn shakes her head. “Daughter, I’ve no idea, and I will not trouble myself over it when it is to our benefit.”

Mauris, Meraud, Oriel, and Richessa all choose to continue on to Inverness, and Hrodwunn is grateful that Belin still stubbornly marches with them. She suspects the Briton’s former home is to the southwest of Alba in Strathclyde, which is still called the Kingdom of the Northern Britons.

Moravia is far more welcoming. When Hrodwunn rides into Inverness, the seat of the king’s power, it is the thirteenth day of Iulius and the true green of summery is finally rich and strong. Given the brittle tension between Alba and Moravia, she is glad of the city’s sturdy stone walls.

In comparison to the older and rugged Cináed of Alba, they’re greeted in Moravia by the young Findláech mac Ruaidrí, who has just turned seventeen with the summer. Findláech welcomes her with manners as fine as any to be found within the bounds of the Empire.

He then introduces Hrodwunn to his father, Mormær Ruaidrí mac Domnall. Moravia’s king is but thirty-nine years of age and should still retain a youthful bearing, but he appears far more like a man twice his age. It makes Queen Eilénóra Kjarvalrsdóttir, Lady of Moravia, seem frighteningly young in comparison, especially when she smiles in delight at seeing Adelheidis and Helena in Hrodwunn’s company.

“Battles,” King Ruaidrí explains when he notices Hrodwunn’s concerned gaze. “It took many of them to secure the borders of my kingdom, Lady Rowena. I’ve been fighting wars on behalf of my people since I grew tall enough to heft a sword and swing it properly.”

“As have I, as has our son,” Queen Eilénóra says with fierce pride. Though she is the queen of a kingdom composed of Pict-adopted Gael-speakers, Eilénóra is still every bit a Norseman’s daughter. Then her expression sobers. “The harshest of tasks still fell to my husband, who had to rule as well as defend. Such a thing ages a man more quickly than a life of leisure.”

Hrodwunn thinks of how differently women are viewed on this isle, whether they are magical or otherwise, before deciding upon what to say. “I defended my family’s duchy often against raiders from the east who would take it from our hands. I lost my own husband to a battle far from our lands, though he fought in many before succumbing.”

“I am sorry for your loss,” King Ruaidrí murmurs, and his family echoes the sentiment. Unlike her words in Godric’s keep, Hrodwunn does not think it politic to mention that she still does not consider Bernardus a loss at all.

She changes the subject, not wanting the others to think it odd that her daughters knew so little of their father that they do not even grow sad at mention of his name. “Pardon my ignorance of local titles. The King of Alba also referred to you as a king, but your son gave your title as Mormær.”

“They are both correct,” King Ruaidrí says. “Mormær is a word that arose when the tongues of our Pictish and Gael forebears were first mingling. It was a title for a ruler who held sway over the _taoiseach_ , the senior chieftains, but now it is our title for our kings. The English would say a Mormær of Moray is like one of their eorls, but that is a misconception rising from a land which has been ruled by a single king for long years.”

“Moray, and not Moravia, Your Majesty?” Adelheidis asks with utmost politeness.

Findláech is the one to nod. “Moravia is the Latin term, and you will hear it as the common word for our kingdom in the south.” The prince slows his pronunciation to reveal the Gaelic behind the word, and Moray becomes _Muireb_.

Helena is the one to latch onto the new word first. “Muireb,” she repeats, speaking the word perfectly on her first try. “Mother, I wish to learn Gaelic!”

If manners did not endear them to the Moravian Court, then Helena’s enthusiasm for the language certainly does. Hrodwunn is very glad that she learned the Gaelic spoken in western Éireann, as from that point forward, it is all Helena wants to hear. Both the king and queen are pleased that Hrodwunn’s knowledge of the language is otherwise complete. Adelheidis huffs out an annoyed sigh and continues to rely on _franceis_ , the common trade language of the south. Norse is the language of trade this far to the north, but neither of her daughters speak it. Hrodwunn isn’t even certain of her own skill with that particular tongue, though she communicated with the sailor Egil well enough.

Ruaidrí and Eilénóra’s Court is calm and soothing for a kingdom that is surrounded by enemies on all sides. Moravia’s rulers are educated and insightful; Hrodwunn can enjoy sitting in their hall during meals or gatherings without her neck prickling a constant warning.

Findláech is the one to reveal Godric and Sedemai’s true ages, something Hrodwunn did not ask of them even after they enquired as to hers. Godric is younger than she realized, and only turned twenty-one in Iunius. The Lady Sedemai’s nineteenth birthday was mere days after they departed the Bristol keep. Both of them strike her as being older, more experienced—as does Findláech.

“Is there something about the isle of Briton that forces one to early maturity, strength of will, and courtly bearing?” Hrodwunn asks.

Findláech does not laugh, though her question could easy have been interpreted as a jest. “Lady Rowena, if I try to recall anyone who was _not_ seated at the table of responsibility before the age of seventeen, I fail. I’m not certain if such a thing is something unique to my isle, but it is certainly common among those of my acquaintance.”

Hrodwunn isn’t certain if she would consider Findláech a friend, but she desperately wants to think of him and his parents as allies. They are educated, fierce defenders of their realm and their people. Findláech has proven himself in battle on many occasions, but what truly makes him unique in Hrodwunn’s experience is that he does not yet desire to wed, even if it would consolidate his power and position as his father’s Heir.

“Heirs are important,” Hrodwunn says, thinking of the difficulties she went through in order to make certain her duchy had them.

“They are, yes, and I confess it would be nice to see a child of my own sit upon the throne before I am eventually lowered into the ground to rest,” Findláech replies. “But I wish to wed for love. Barring that, I’d rather my union with another be of the utmost political gain for Muireb. I have able-bodied cousins and a younger brother who can inherit the throne if the worst happens.”

“A younger brother?” Hrodwunn asks. She has not been introduced to this mysterious brother, which means he must not be present in his family’s Court.

Findláech smiles. “Máil Brigti mac Ruaidrí. He will be nine years old in September. He is visiting his grandfather Járnkné Sigurdsson in Osraige to learn the ways of our mother’s court. It’s a necessity when one must deal with those of Éireann, the Orkney Earldom, and the Kingdom of the Isles.”

There are a great number of kingdoms crammed together on a very small island. Hrodwunn has only experienced Brittonic life for over two months, but is starting to believe that the politics of the Empire are easier to comprehend than the complicated state of affairs that Briton calls its own.

“I find it quite fitting that the first hospitality you received on our island came from the Lord Godric,” Findláech says over the evening meal, commonly called supper in this region. “A good omen, I think.”

“I am taking that to mean that I am following the correct path.” Hrodwunn lifts her goblet of ale. “It is a good way to educate myself on the lands and languages of the isle.”

“And properly keeping your young ones away from a man who thinks children are bargaining pieces,” Findláech murmurs approvingly. “Any man who would do so does not deserve to be a king.”

“If that idiot becomes king, then the Western Roman Empire will shatter into pieces that no man will ever recover,” Hrodwunn says dryly.

None in the royal household seem concerned with the idea that part of Hrodwunn’s original retinue are waiting to become Hrodwunn’s employed servants rather than taking the opportunity to serve the Moravian Court. They also act as if Richessa’s skills are not an oddity at all. Even Bertram is treated as a welcome guest, and the raven is acting the part of a spoiled brat of a bird because of it.

Hrodwunn knows that women born outside of noble rank work at many tasks to earn coin, which often requires a refinement of skill, but there are certain things the Roman Empire would not stomach a woman to perform. The ease in which the women of these lands seek their own fortunes fills her with a baffling sense of relief.

She was an oddity in Bavaria not for being educated, but for continuing to advance her education once the necessities of reading, writing, sums, theology, and history were completed. Here, Hrodwunn’s knowledge is met with gratitude untainted by scorn. Her many learned tongues are useful in the capital of a kingdom, which always attracts speakers of other languages. She can discuss trade within the bounds of the Empire, and how to open proper—politically neutral—trade with Constantinople. There are caravans that travel from West to East and back again once a year, but active trade agreements with another kingdom open political avenues that are otherwise unavailable.

Her skill at diplomacy neatly diffuses a temperamental confrontation when Sigurd Hlodvirsson comes to Inverness at the end of Iulius to accuse the King Ruaidrí of hiding his fugitive sister. Hrodwunn knows that young Hlodvirsson is not yet the Eorl of the Orkney Earldom in the northern land beyond the mountains, but that does not stop him from acting as if he holds the title already.

“What nonsense does he speak of?” Hrodwunn asks after Hlodvirsson has finally departed. From what she knows of Norse culture—if she is recalling correctly—Sigurd has no claim on his sister at all, not when this Helga Hlodvirsdottir is a magician. The female magicians of the Norse keep their own counsel, a fact that scandalizes the whole of the Imperial Court.

“The line of succession,” Findláech answers, looking irritated still. “Even with his father’s ascension as Jarl of Orkney after the sudden death of his uncle, Sigurd does not have certain claim on the Orkney Isles. He may have been named his father’s Heir as the Jarl Hlodvir’s only son, but Sigurd is not yet wed and has no children. Sigurd has three uncles from his father’s blood who are contesting his claim to the Earldom. He feels that Countess Helga would be favored by these uncles and by their people if she were to wed and then seek the throne. Sigurd wishes to prevent that possibility from ever becoming certainty.”

Hrodwunn rolls her eyes. “Someone should have told him that the policies of the Empire are not necessarily good policies to follow for oneself.”

“Oh, those policies spread long ago, Lady Rowena,” Findláech says. “Sigurd’s failing is that he seems to have forgotten that one cannot force a _V _ǫlva__ _to do anything they do not wish to do.”_

 _“What is a_ _V _ǫlva__ _?”_

Findláech smiles. “It always seemed wiser to me that I knew nothing more but for the fact that they are highly valued magicians among the Norse. The Norse magicians are much like the Pict magicians in being laws unto themselves.”

_That evening, Hrodwunn stands on the low stone battlements of Inverness’s innermost wall. She is growing more comfortable in the north, and what was once a temporary self-banishment no longer feels like that at all._

She dearly loves being in a land that respects female magicians as individuals with full say over their fate rather than biddable necessity. Hrodwunn married Bernardus because it was a proper political match, but understood that love would never be regarded as a concern for whomever she wed. She never wants her daughters to face their weddings with that same air of resignation.

She enjoys being in a land that values all she has ever learned. She does not see herself ever being referred to as a “bauble” on this island. Helena and Adelheidis will be looked upon for their worth in education and magic, not their noble blood.

It takes a great deal of effort to even think such sacrilege, and even longer to speak the words aloud. “I don’t want to go back,” Hrodwunn whispers.

“It took you long enough to come to that decision. I feared I would need to spend a month in this crowded city.”

Hrodwunn draws her wand and turns as battle instincts take hold, the same skills that defended her duchy from eastern invaders. The first spell is on her lips when she discovers that she is aiming her wand at a grey-haired, bearded, grizzled old man in robes that seem to be composed more of patches and mending than unmarred fabric. He is propping himself up with an age-smoothed staff of oak that lends the air a faint scent of beeswax.

“And you are?” Hrodwunn asks politely, but does not lower her wand. Perhaps he is a threat; perhaps he is not. She will do him the courtesy of responding in Latin, as he spoke to her in the old tongue of the Empire.

He tilts his head, regarding her with sharp dark eyes that gleam in the torchlight. “You’ve heard me spoken of by my last apprentice’s great-grandson. I am Myrddin ap Manawydan, son of he who was Manawydan fab Llŷr. Of late I am known as Myrddin Wyllt.”

“You would be Briton’s most famous magician.” Hrodwunn slowly lowers her wand. “And the most long-lived magician in recorded history.”

Myrddin seems to consider that. “I do not actually think I am, but I suppose you would need to consider the historical records in lands beyond the Empire’s borders. Most famous?” He shakes his head. “No, there have been others on this isle who were more renowned than I, but their time was long ago.”

“Other historical records?” Hrodwunn has to admit, she is curious. “Among which people?”

Myrddin only smiles and does not answer her question. “I think it fitting that you are the first. Yes. The oldest, the one who wishes to seek knowledge until there is none left to be found. The clear thinker, the steady hand. The shining wisdom of the east.”

Hrodwunn is not certain if he is complimenting her or not. It is best, then, to address the first thing he spoke of. “The first for what?”

Myrddin answers as if she has asked him a particularly foolish question. “The first of the Four who will found my school, of course.”

 Hrodwunn sucks in an excited breath. Not an existing school. A school yet to be. Not a haven already begun, but one needing to be built.

A challenge that magicians have not faced since the establishment of the ancient school in Rome, created when the Empire was still a young Republic.

Hrodwunn tucks her wand back into her sleeve. “Myrddin Wyllt, it would please me greatly to hear more of what you wish to accomplish.”

 

_Myrddin Wyllt (Louis Rhead)_


	6. Mourning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I’m here to ask if you really do want to be left alone, or if you want company."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Fundraisening! Goal posts surpassed and I might have to start looking at other fic. (@sanerontheinside is a bit frantic because there was a file mixup and she hasn't seen the first chapter of Part VI yet. Whoops.)
> 
> Also, I forgot the beta credit for @norcumi back in the first chapter. Double-whoops.

Hrodwunn is sitting at the shore of the Black Loch on her folded cloak, watching its gentle waves lap against a shore that was once composed of boulder, then rock, then pebble, and now tiny grains of sand. She sought the water for some idyllic notion of peace and instead finds herself mulling over the nature of the progression of time. Of course.

It’s a surprise when someone drops down onto the ground next to her, but less so once she realizes who it is. “Nizar.”

“Scary Gaul lady who skipped breakfast,” Nizar responds. He picks up a flattened rock smaller than his palm, regards it, and then skips it across the water six times before it sinks to the bottom of the loch. “Shit. I can usually manage eight.”

“What do you want, Nizar?” Hrodwunn asks, trying not to bite her lip. He often makes her smile without intending to, but she does not _want_ to smile.

“Everyone else said that whenever you make that face and go off by yourself, you want to be left alone,” Nizar says, tugging at the front of his tunics until he’s loosened the upper lacing of his shirt. “But when I asked if anyone had actually asked _you_ if that was what you wanted, they said they hadn’t. I’m here to ask if you really do want to be left alone, or if you want company. Either is fine by me. I’m avoiding Leoric, but I can do that anywhere.”

Nizar is in a talkative mood, which has not been common of late, though it is not his studies that are responsible for his silence. “Dare I ask what you’ve done to anger Godric’s nephew?”

“Do you remember when I threatened to turn Godric into a tree in Februarius?”

It is much more of a struggle to keep from smiling. “I do recall the statement, yes.”

“Gedeloc showed me the runes he said would best accomplish it, though he also said I shouldn’t begin by attempting to use them on people. I thought that was a good idea.” Nizar selects another rock. He studies the sparkling vein of quartz along its bottom before skipping it along the water to join its predecessor. “I was practicing on a rock, but while I was working, Leoric took it into his head to tease Fellona and tied her hair in a knot. Fellona chased Leoric across the circle I was using, and thus Leoric was in the line of magical fire. It took a few minutes to figure out how to step the spell backwards so he would cease being a tree, but I don’t think he’s forgiven me yet.”

“I doubt I would be so quick to forgive you either,” Hrodwunn says in a dry voice. “I do and I do not wish to be alone, Nizar. Does that make sense to you?”

“Honestly? Yes. I really do understand.” Nizar selects a third rock, but this one he puts into Hrodwunn’s hand. “Fling it on its side as if you’re trying to sail it over the water.”

Hrodwunn stares down at the flat rock, which has a light weight and a smooth, cool feel against her palm. “Why?”

Nizar snorts. “Because it’s kinder than turning people into trees.”

She gives him an arch look and flings the rock as instructed. It bounces off the water and then sinks when it comes back down. “I’ve never done that before.”

“It takes practice. Gedeloc says that the Venicones used to fling rocks at the water because it was safer to practice on water than on people. Once they were good at it, they could take out a soldier with a well-flung pebble if their aim was true.” Nizar points at the center of his own forehead. “Disabling.” Then he points at his temple. “Potentially lethal. Granted, throwing rocks wasn’t of much use if the enemy had helms, but not everyone can afford to wear a heavy iron hat on their head.”

Hrodwunn gives in and smiles. “Are you deliberately seeking to cheer me?”

“No, I’m hiding from Leoric,” Nizar claims, but then he smiles back. “Though you’ve been on my arse about seeking reasons to be happy, and _you_ did not look pleased about anything. Revenge is great.”

 _Theophanu would have liked you_ , Hrodwunn thinks. It never once occurred to her to introduce Nizar to her friend during his first year with them, and she very much regrets that now. “You are still insistent on learning the shaping magics, aren’t you?”

“I’m still trying, yes. I don’t really sleep; why not?” Nizar shrugs. “I can hold the color change in my eyes for about five seconds before I lose it. That is better than my previous accomplishment of zero seconds.”

Hrodwunn didn’t ask before, considering that it might be a rude question, but she thinks she understands her student a bit better now. “Why do you wish to master those lessons? Why do you intend to do so now, when you are already learning of so much else?”

Nizar selects two more stones, giving one to Hrodwunn, before he hefts the one he keeps for himself. “When I look into the mirror, I see who I used to be, and all of the shit attached to my old name. Sometimes I see my father. I’d rather—I want to look into a mirror and see someone I only think of as _me_. Does that make sense?”

Hrodwunn feels a pang in her heart. The first thirty years of her life were devoted to exactly that sort of self-determination, even when she didn’t yet know what she was seeking. “Yes. I do understand what you mean. Would you like to take a brief journey to the Roman Empire, Nizar?”

“How brief is _brief_? The last time Salazar said a trip was going to be brief, we were gone for a week,” Nizar says.

“Overnight only. I will not be taking Helena and Alicia until the Hærfest Equinox. I was not even ready to make the journey myself until…” Hrodwunn flings the rock at the water, pleased when it skips along three times before sinking. She has always been a fast learner. “Until now.”

Nizar gives her a look of faint suspicion, but not the sort he reserves for a potential enemy. That is a fire that’s wondrous to behold. This is merely a young man wondering if they are into deliberate mischief, or if it will simply find them. Goddess knows it likes to find Salazar easily enough. “All right. I’ll go tell the others so they don’t come to believe bandits came along and made off with us both. Should we meet back here?”

“That would be a kindness, yes,” Hrodwunn says, and watches as he performs Fahrend instead of retreating to the castle on foot. Then she does the same, going directly to her quarters. She does not yet want to see anyone who might suspect what sort of visitation she intends. She has told no one what happened, not yet, but the news will arrive in Hogewáþ soon enough.

When she has gathered what she might need for a simple journey over the water, Hrodwunn returns to the shores of the loch. There she finds Nizar already waiting, though he is standing within the gentle blue glow of a good shielding charm while Leoric hurls ineffective hexes at him.

“Leoric, could your time not better be served performing some other task?” Hrodwunn asks him.

Leoric scowls. “He turned me into a tree!”

“For five minutes! Honestly, it was worse when your sister turned you into a tortoise!”

“At least a tortoise can move!” Leoric retorts.

“Leoric, I need for your victim to accompany me,” Hrodwunn says. “Your attempts at revenge will have to wait for the morrow.”

“Fine.” Leoric shoves his wand in his sleeve, sticks out his lower lip, and kicks a stone as he walks off in a grand sulk. Nizar wisely glances around, alert for other students, before he drops the shield and holds out his arm. “Where are we going?”

“The city of Köln.” Hrodwunn makes certain her grip is secure before they are both magically traveling south to Inverness. Bearings set, she makes the next leap of the journey all the way to the easternmost edge of the Tamesis before it meets the sea. By that point, she needs a half-hour of rest before continuing. Nizar does not complain about halting their jouney, but he does lie upon the rock and comment on how it is really unkind of the sky to continue spinning long after they’ve bothered to stop.

When Hrodwunn trusts her ability to perform Fahrend properly again, she takes them both to Nimeguen. They stand in the shade of a tree that also has a subtle charm attached so the non-magical do not pay attention to a magician’s comings and goings. “Where are we? Köln?” Nizar asks, glancing around.

“This is Nimeguen, currently held by the Western Roman Empire within the boundary of East Francia,” Hrodwunn says. “We are less than one hundred miles from the sea. Nimeguen was the Empress’s favorite place within the whole of the Empire after her husband’s death.”

Nizar gives her a sharp look. “Was?”

Hrodwunn does not respond to the implied question. “We go to Köln now.”

When they arrive, they are in the lee of the large stone wall that surrounds the church. The sun is shining down with more insistency than it had been in the north. It feels far too warm until Hrodwunn reminds herself of the proper cooling charms that protect one from the heat of the day.

“Köln, Köln,” Nizar repeats. “Wait. Cologne?”

“That is what the English call it, yes,” Hrodwunn confirms. “This way.”

“What’s in Cologne, then?” Nizar asks.

Hrodwunn cannot resist the dry delivery. “A church.”

“Oh, I’m certain there is more than one of those lurking about.” Nizar gazes up at the façade of this particular church, which bears hints of Constantinople’s influence. “That is definitely different.”

“The Empress Theophanu ordered its construction,” Hrodwunn says in a low voice, mindful of the many people who now surround them. Armed and armored guards block the doors, admitting access only to those whom they deem safe to enter the church. “Come.”

“Theophanu is a Greek name.” Nizar eyes the guards as they approach. “When did she die?”

Hrodwunn bites the inside of her cheek before answering in a mild voice. “The fifteenth of Iunius, 991. Last month.”

“Oh.”

Hrodwunn’s sharp-tongued Latin gets them past the guards, who are Church-educated and trained, just as she suspected. The inside of the church is full of hushed whispers and the murmuring of prayers in Latin and Greek. Many have come from Constantinople to mourn their princess, who treated fairly with the Eastern Roman Empire after her husband’s death took away the West’s zeal for conquering Eastern-held lands. The lust for conquest will possibly return, but Theophanu had been attempting to secure a bride from her homeland for her son in order to see a continued peace. Hrodwunn does not know whether those negotiations will continue under Dowager Empress Adelheid, who now acts as regent for eleven-year-old Otto III.

She has a moment of intense sympathy for her friend’s youngest child. Hrodwunn did not lose her mother and father until she was a grown woman with children of her own. Still it was a terrible pain, one felt too early. She does not envy Otto the experience of learning of that pain so young. Even Nizar’s thoughts hold the sting of bitterness from the early loss of his parents, though he can remember them not at all.

It requires more Latin (and the revelation of her own authority) for Hrodwunn to breach the next ring of guards, sterner men who keep the apse of the church secured against those with ill intent. The apse itself is small and humble, built to hold only one thing.

“This is she,” Hrodwunn says of the carved white marble sarcophagus that sits on a stone cradle. The large stone box is a poor substitute for the woman herself. They had both once believed Theophanu would never wield any real power within the Empire after her husband’s death, but when the Empress reclaimed her son from Henry II, she also claimed her right to rule in a way that was absolutely masterful. Theophanu acted not as Regent, but as recognized _Imperatrix Augusta_. The Empire accepted her words, actions, diplomacy, and negotiations, bowing to her brilliant whim. Many sang her praises as Theophanu not only held their kingdoms together, but helped them to thrive.

Nizar walks slowly around the sarcophagus, observing the Latin carved on all four sides. “Yes, still terrible at Latin. What does this say, Rowena?”

Hrodwunn has to swallow before she speaks. “It is meant to say ‘The Empress Theophanu, wife and mother of Emperors. This Church of Saint Panteleonis was cultivated in the highest honor and the individual making of the generous one placed upon here, in the sepulcher she herself ordered appointed.’”

“You were friends, weren’t you?”

Hrodwunn nods in response and then takes him by the arm, guiding Nizar to the painting resting in a slight alcove. “This is Theophanu, though without magic the image does her no justice at all.” She studies the stretched canvas with a critical eye. “She would be disappointed. Her clothes are too plain for her preference. The artist must never have met her in life.”

Nizar leans against Hrodwunn’s arm. “She looks sad.”

“That depiction is accurate. Theophanu was widowed in December of 983. She loved her husband very much. I miss him as well, as he was also my friend. Theophanu is…” Hrodwunn nods again, not certain what she means to agree to. “She was not sad when we met. I was nineteen; she seventeen and newly crowned Empress Consort of the Western Roman Empire. Theophanu was my first friend, Nizar. The first person I ever knew outside of my own parents who tried to understand me.”

“That sounds familiar,” Nizar murmurs.

“And it was very much worth learning how to understand you, my friend,” Hrodwunn replies.

They look at the painting in silence for a few more minutes, the hush broken only by the continued whispering of prayers, the quiet shuffle of footsteps as men and women enter and leave the church as their affairs are concluded. “Your first friend was an Empress. You have been positively _slumming_ it by living with us,” Nizar finally says.

“What?” Hrodwunn glances at him, startled. “What does _slumming it_ mean?”

“Oh. Hanging with the riffraff,” Nizar says in a light voice. “Those who dwell beyond the heath. Nobles of utter unimportance compared to an Emperor and an Empress.”

“That is not—that is not any concern I have ever had for dwelling in Hogewáþ with all of you!” Hrodwunn sputters. Then she spies the wide smile on Nizar’s face and slaps him on the back of the head. “Have you no shame at all?” she asks, laughing. She did not expect to laugh in this place. It feels…right. Proper.

Theophanu always did enjoy laughter.

“Not when it means that I get to tease the friend of an Empress. How often is that going to happen in my life? I have to take advantage when I can.” Nizar nudges her with his elbow. “Do you want to go home?”

“Not yet.” Hrodwunn escorts him from the apse with a lighter heart. “First it is time for my own revenge. You’ve yet to meet my son.”

The length of the journey from Köln to Hrabanklawa is almost beyond Hrodwunn’s skill, but Nizar assists by drawing a strange rune on his palm with a bit of mud. When they clasp hands, she can feel him lend his magical strength to hers. “Gedeloc is teaching you well,” Hrodwunn says when they arrive at the magical boundary of Hrabanklawa. She doesn’t feel drained by the journey at all.

“Gedeloc declares that I am a complete cheat. He says he will go home for the Harvest Equinox bragging about me to his entire bloody family,” Nizar replies, sounding amused. “That was fun! I’ve never actually done that before.”

“I am not your means of experimentation!” Hrodwunn exclaims, fighting another smile.

Nizar snorts. “Quoth the Ravenclaw.” She isn’t certain what sort of denial that is meant to be, but it’s charming. Hrodwunn would like to lay full blame for that at Salazar’s feet, but they were well-matched from the very beginning.

Hrodwunn’s son has taken after Bernardus in the way he remains aloof from strangers. Nizar greets Houdin and takes in his stiff noble bearing with good grace, but then makes a point of utterly charming Hrodohaidis. Houdin then has no choice but to be more polite to this adult student of Hogewáþ that Hrodwunn has brought to Hrabanklawa, or he risks losing face before his own wife and son.

Hrodwunn is quite proud of Nizar for that accomplishment. It is no wonder that he used his words so effectively against King Bermudo of León, but she cannot take full credit for that feat. Nizar spent his entire childhood using words to defend himself, as they were the only weapons he had. Hrodwunn, Salazar, Godric, Helga, Sedemai, Orellana—they have only polished an existing skill, and Nizar is learning how to refine it.

Agilhard is louder than his parents when issuing the insistent invitation that Hrodwunn and Nizar remain for evening meal. They sit down at the set table as the family’s servants move about, placing food and filling goblets. Hrodwunn bides her time, waiting with her infamous Court mask for Nizar to observe the whole of his surroundings.

Nizar notices almost at once, but doesn’t mention it until Houdin is distracted by Agilhard’s chatter. Then he picks up one of the two-pronged pieces of tableware. “Funny how this seems awfully similar to a fork.”

Hrodwunn blinks at him and picks up her goblet. “Does it resemble one? I had not noticed at all.”

Nizar’s eyes are an overbright shade of emerald when he looks at her, a sign that he is holding back laughter. “You didn’t say a word about forks. Not ever. Have you been pranking the others for over a _year_?”

Hrodwunn glances at her grandson, who is shouting in fluent Greek over an imagined slight with a playmate. Hrodohaidis gets up to separate them, smiling and glancing skyward in patient frustration. She is pregnant with Houdin’s second child now, one Hrodwunn feels will be a daughter. Hrodohaidis does not loathe pregnancy as Hrodwunn did; she even claims to enjoy it.

“The others less than one in particular. Godric has a very keen eye and ear. It isn’t often that I’m able to gain any sort of advantage over him.”

“Do you think Godric minds that we try to find things to taunt him with on a regular basis?” Nizar asks, twirling the fork around in his nimble fingers.

She offers a light shrug. “If Godric truly minded, you would never have magically sent another serpent across his path after the first day.”

“Good point.” Nizar raises his own goblet as Hrodohaidis finally gets the youthful squabbling under control. “To snakes, forks, and trees?”

Hrodwunn touches her silver goblet against his. “But to the subtlety of the forks in particular.”

 

[Tomb of Theophanu, Imperatrix Augusta](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X80u1pL0Y2A)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [OALC cover fanart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14856974) by [Gryffe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gryffe/pseuds/Gryffe)




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